


We'll Build Our Altar Here

by nuitdemesreves (mesohorany)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Accidental Voyeurism that then becomes legit voyeurism, Brother/Brother Incest, Did I mention this is incest, Don't Like Don't Read, Eventual Smut, Incest, Just gonna go ahead and change that M to E, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Pining, Sash is underage for formative purposes, They have a weird thing with wearing each other's necklaces, slooooooooow burn, ugh i hate myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 83,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/nuitdemesreves
Summary: There’d always been a weird thing between them. Sascha was the apple of Mischa’s eye and he was unusually possessive; meanwhile, Mischa was Sascha’s moon-hanger, star-creator, and they treated each other as such. AKA Mischa didn't know what was happening, until one day he did. [Warning: This is INCEST; don't like it, don't read it.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: this is fiction. This is not true. This did not happen. I know nothing about their personal lives and this in no way reflects actual life.
> 
> I was insanely conflicted about whether or not to post this but these two have been owning me recently so I thought, fuck it. I changed Sascha's age multiple times in this because I couldn't decide how old I wanted him to be when this started; for all intents and purposes he is sixteen, nearly seventeen, when this is set. I'm on the fence about how far they are going to go with this physically at his age but a lot of this is backstory; I have many, many more pages of this and I'll post more if people want it.
> 
> TBH I hopped on this train and just ran with it, made them my own. There are definitely tournament date/various other inconsistencies that I just took liberties with because I started writing this with very little knowledge of the boys' lives. I was inspired by (1) an old photo that Mischa posted on Instagram where he is wearing what appear to be the chains that Sascha now wears around his neck and (2) an interview in which Sascha says "Mischa has a wife now" in this TONE, and well, my brain went off.
> 
> Finally there are probably a few typos/punctuation issues because I wrote all of this in notes on my phone before transferring it to a document. Apologies :)

Sascha was so young and in the scheme of things Mischa really was too and there was a lot, a lot, a lot to unpack.

 

They weren’t together as much as they wanted to be. Irina was with Sascha most of the year; meanwhile, Alex Sr. and Mischa were touring the world, a new city every week. Sascha was sweating and shredding through the minor league court and the gym in Clearwater, Florida, and Mischa was miles away. It never got better being apart so they’d call each other every night, Skype when they felt like looking at each other, which was often. When Mischa returned to Florida for an off week after a grueling month-long tour on the road in the summer of Sascha’s sixteenth year, he found his little brother tall and sculpted from muscle and incredibly different.

 

He was young. Mischa was, too. But he was not young enough not to know better.

 

“You’re almost ready,” he said confidently, looking at Sascha all looming and lanky in the bathroom mirror beside him. “Soon you’ll be on tour with me all the time.”

 

“I want to go now,” said Sascha petulantly, and Mischa laughed at him, his naïveté.

 

“Soon.”

 

What a heavy word.

 

*

There’d always been a weird thing between them. Not negative; no, this thing was in all actuality far too positive to exist between brothers. Sascha was the apple of Mischa’s eye and he was unusually possessive; meanwhile, Mischa was Sascha’s moon-hanger, star-creator, and they treated each other as such. Where Mischa was dark, Sascha was light. They balanced each other beautifully, and yet there seemed always to be an upset of natural order in the air around them.

 

Mischa knew what it was long before Sascha fully understood. He had a few years of puberty and experience with attraction on his brother and one day when they were training shirtless together in the punishing Florida sunshine Sascha passed him close at the net and their bare hips brushed and Mischa felt as though he’d been electrocuted. Sascha was fifteen. Mischa was twenty-four. The errant thought was whining in the back of his brain all day before he woke up at three in the morning and a key clicked in a lock inside of him and he had to go to the bathroom to hurl cold water at his face.

 

Sascha was FIFTEEN.

 

When they sat down to breakfast the next morning Sascha nudged him with his toe under the table and pulled his concerned face.

 

“What is it?”

 

Mischa looked into Sascha’s innocent, worried eyes and felt his stomach decompress.

 

“I slept like shit,” he said, and it was the truth. He’d slept like shit because he’d understood that he was attracted to his little brother.

 

The more he slept silently on it, the better he became at convincing himself he’d been wrong. Sash was his little star, his motivation, but he was his b r o t h e r. Emphasis on blood relation. His body had been overheated and confused and it had reacted incorrectly. He was over it. Things were fine.

 

Until Sascha touched him again, and things were not fine.

 

Sash started touching him like an experiment. Light little fingers, innocuous brushes in the hallway and at the table, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Except Mischa knew Sascha was paying attention to the way he jumped and leaned into the contact automatically. He didn’t think that pulling away would accomplish a thing but riling Sascha’s suspicion; the younger understood far too much as it was. He was gone a lot these days and when Sascha texted him every night it was to request Skype time. Mischa could never refuse. Sascha was always shirtless with his brooding green eyes and lanky sprawled frame and it made Mischa uncomfortable to look at him. It took more than one session of sticky shame in the darkness of his bathroom to realize that he wasn’t really paying attention to the porn on his phone screen anymore.

 

Mischa started showing up to Skype time wearing only gym shorts, matching his brother skin for skin. He convinced himself he was imagining the curious, wicked expression in Sascha’s eyes.

 

Nothing happened. They didn’t talk about a thing. When they were together physically, Sascha’s experimental touching became something that Mischa gradually caught on and responded to. Sascha and his huge six four frame had a California King bed and Mischa fell asleep at the edge almost every night, Xbox controller dangling out of his hand. When he’d wake up to readjust he’d think about lining his body up against the miles and miles of Sascha’s skin, bare and warm as he slept inches away.

 

He never acted upon the thought. Not then.

 

Sascha turned sixteen, quietly. They were traveling for one of Mischa’s tournaments; Sascha was good enough now to be his consistent hitting partner when he had a week off of his own tour and he was stronger every day. They were staying in a condo in Ocho Rios and their parents had gone out to pick up dinner and let them rest and Mischa caught Sascha masturbating furiously over the toilet. He hadn’t locked the door and he was wearing Mischa’s gold-plated cross and when he looked up into Mischa’s shocked eyes he didn’t stop, not for a second. Mischa looked from his brother’s luminescent gaze to his hinged-wide mouth to his fingers mashed up against the wall and couldn’t remember a single word in a single language until -

 

“Sorry.” And he ducked back out, entranced, hard, terrified.

 

Sascha laughed after him, but his voice was scared, too.

 

“Meesh.”

 

“Yeah, Sash.” Mischa paused, hand on the door, gazing studiously away. He could hear how his brother’s palm slicked against his skin and had to swallow to keep from _mmm_ ing out loud.

 

“Not your fault.” Sascha’s voice was strained. Mischa knew him well enough to know that he was close. He knew this because his voice sounded like Sascha’s did now when he was on the brink of an orgasm, and there were some things that the Zverev brothers did exactly the same because genetics were strong in this family. He also knew this because he had heard Sascha before, when Sash had thought he was sleeping in that California king, fucking his hand into a tissue and trying to be quiet for Mischa’s sake. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes there was that involuntary little hoarse sigh.

 

Sometimes in the dead of night Mischa thought about that little sigh when he fucked his own hand. Thought about how he knew exactly how to, in theory, draw that noise from his brother’s mouth and how he’d swallow it like the secrets he kept locked against his innermost darkness. There was no reason for Sascha to call him back then, not just to say that it wasn’t his fault what he’d walked in on. Normal siblings would be screaming, jumping to slam the door shut, shameful and exposed and angry for it. Mischa had to conclude that Sascha wanted him to stay.

 

That was before he left home for a solid month, before he left Sascha alone for thirty days and came back to him so physically changed, wiser in the eyes. A few months after that, for a lower tier tournament they’d entered into doubles together, he let Sascha catch him at it just to see what he’d do, just to look at his face. In the darkness of the bathroom at one in the morning with the world asleep around them and his teeth clenched against the noise that begged and growled to be released from his chest he looked his brother dead in the eye and kept on. He wasn’t afraid now.

 

Sascha said low, “Why are you up?”

 

Mischa laughed out loud but he didn’t stop. This felt disgustingly familiar, disconcertingly normal.

 

“What do you think?”

 

Sascha smiled then, and there was nothing in his eyes but interest and the assuredness of his age.

 

“Sorry,” he said, but he was looking, and not at Mischa’s face.

 

Mischa hissed out loud because he couldn’t fucking help it, because his brother that he’d thought more than once about fucking into the floor was watching him jerk it and there was no disgust in his face, only fascination. It was so, so dark but he knew that Sascha’s eyes were keen as a cat’s; he saw everything. Mischa was inches from climax and his brain wasn’t in his brain at all and without thinking he said out loud, “Are you?”

 

He looked in Sascha’s wide green eyes and within them he saw that Sascha was aware that Mischa was calling him out for every little thing that he had been doing to tease him for ages and then Mischa was coming, so hard, shivering in his own skin with his eyes closed.

 

“No,” said Sascha quietly, and Mischa opened his eyes. There it was. Sascha didn’t say another word but his eyes were alight and Mischa didn’t doubt for a second that he’d spoken. He was cemented to the floor; his voice didn’t work, he couldn’t think of a thing to say. But Sascha blinked and licked his lips and after one last long look he turned and walked out the door.

 

He was so bold. Mischa hadn’t been like that as a teenager (and every time he thought of his brother as a teenager, knowing how his body responded to Sascha’s touch, he cringed away from himself). He’d been reserved, focused only on tennis, and, when he was home, taking care of Sash. He could remember holding him as an infant (the internal cringing intensified), how Sash would latch on to his forefinger with the entirety of his tiny cherub hand and beam for him, come down from tantrum heights for him and no one else. How, when he was big enough to stand and hold Mischa’s rackets, he would march around the court in his little Borg headband, a spare racket clutched in his small fat fist, yelling: “Me tennis! Me tennis!” Distractingly sweet with his towhead curls and big square grin.

 

Mischa knew he’d be great. He had all the faith in the world. Sascha was taller and stronger than half the guys he played on tour on a regular basis and he was sixteen years old. What might the next five years bring, what might the next decade? He didn’t let himself think about what other things that time span might allow to come to pass.

 

That week he was blazing from more than just the usual desire for glory and he reached the semifinals in singles without losing a set. After he won his quarterfinal match he and Sascha, playing as easily and melodically as the most experienced strum of a guitar, took the court for their quarterfinal doubles match and positively soared. Sascha, who had won two qualifying matches and nearly made main draw, was attracting media attention and Mischa had the fleeting thought that they needed to be careful. The thought was unbidden and he was just thinking that he had no reasonable cause for its appearance when Sascha slid a possessive hand down his spine, pinned his fingers at the base, leaned down to whisper to him. In Russian, because no one spoke Russian in Belgium.

 

“Feels like lots of people are watching, yeah?”

 

“Yeah. They’re looking at you.” Mischa smiled, but he had goosebumps between his fucking TOES from that touch.

 

“Nah.” Sascha’s face went crimson; he was beaming. “They’re watching us. Better be careful, hadn’t we?”

 

And he winked and raced up to the net. Mischa’s blood ran cold as a tundra, cold as a Borealis sky.

 

“Sash,” he said at changeover, nervous. “what do you mean?”

 

Sascha looked out across the court and his face was wry; his smile slow to come and hot as desert wind. He swiped his perspiring face with his towel before answering.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

Mischa hated being on his back foot. This was the closest they’d ever come to verbal flirtation and he did not like that the upper hand was not currently in his possession. He tapped the crown of his racket against the ground, smiled ruefully as he ran a hand over his face.

 

“Sascha. No one is going to know that you watched me jack off just by seeing us play doubles for a couple of hours.”

 

Sascha’s responsive breath was sharp, deep, a suck of whistled wind through his teeth. “Fuck, Meesh. When you put it that way.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” The tips of Mischa’s ears were scarlet, aflame. To lessen the tension he said on a grin, “They might get suspicious if you keep running your hand down my back like that, though.”

 

Sascha looked at him, caught. “I’m not - “

 

Mischa laughed, slapped Sascha’s knee before he got to his feet. He was chagrined to realize that he was semi-hard but he was in charge now and he couldn’t slow his roll. “You are. But I didn’t say stop.” Returning the wink. “Alexander.”

 

So Sascha didn’t stop, and Mischa started. Neither of them knew quite what the other was saying between the lines in that little exchange but after they spoke the touching became mildly outrageous. Sascha’s fingertips on Mischa’s hips, Mischa’s hands on the ridges of Sascha’s abdomen, pushing him back while they spoke about their next play for fear of crossing that undefined line. Because there was a line, oh yes. If it didn’t exist Mischa knew himself well enough to understand that he’d have let Sascha do anything to him in that bathroom.

 

They won easy, two and three. Irina and Alexander Sr. took them to dinner to celebrate and under the table of their tiny booth Sascha pressed the length of his long, long thigh against Mischa’s own and fiddled with his hands the entire meal. Mischa took this to understand that Sascha was nervous because this was what he did when he was cranked up, exhibited signs of extreme anxiety. At one point Sascha’s leg was jiggling so hard that Mischa smacked his hand down inconspicuously on his little brother’s thigh, stilled him, calmed him. Even after all this time he was still the only one who could quell Sascha when he worked himself up like this.

 

In their room that night, bunked down and lightning-strike awake, Sascha said impishly, “I guess it’s your turn to catch me.”

 

Mischa snorted, licked his lips. “I already did.”

 

Sascha’s voice was mirth. “Round three.”

 

Mischa wanted to ask him why he had stayed but he couldn’t breathe. “Sash,” he said, seriously.

 

“What?”

 

“You know this isn’t, like, normal.”

 

Sascha sat up in bed, rolled on his lanky side, all bones and limbs and milk skin. “I know.” His eyes glimmered in the layers of dark. “We’re not doing anything, Meesh.”

 

“No. We’re not.” The unspoken words were screaming through the air sharp as a reaper blade and the space between their beds, maybe two feet, felt like miles. “Just fucking killing it out there.”

 

Sascha grinned. “Thanks to you.”

 

“And you and that serve.” Mischa’s heart was a jungle drum but they were back on safe neutral ground and he was breathing again. “Maybe we’ll win.”

 

“We will,” said Sascha, confident. “I think you will, too.”

 

*

They didn’t win. But that was okay. Two finals in one week felt incredible and what felt even better was how Sascha hugged him after they lost, sharp with sweat and pulsing with life, his hands tangling in Mischa’s hair as Mischa grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and growled, “ _Z’dorova_ , Sascha.”

 

“I’m so proud of you,” said Sascha three hours later, breathing into Mischa’s neck as he held him. Mischa had lost but he was not upset. He felt like the whole world was his to be had if he wanted it.

 

Next week they were scheduled in two different cities, two different tournaments. It was already Saturday and it was far too late for Mischa to withdraw without suffering consequences, so it was with more sadness than happiness that they ventured to the airport, sitting in the back of their taxi separated by Irina. She was overflowing with praise for her deviant sons but Sascha and Mischa couldn’t stop looking at each other. That was normal, really; they had always been the center of each other’s universes, but there was an extra element now, something that burned like coal in their furnaces.

 

“Call me when you’re there,” Mischa instructed into Sascha’s curls, still damp from the shower, as they hugged goodbye. “I love you.”

 

“I love you so much,” said Sascha, fiercely, and his mouth landed smack in the middle of Mischa’s thatch of dark hair. Mischa felt it as pressure but his entire body burned. “Keep it up, big brother.”

 

“And you,” laughed Mischa, and he chanced squeezing Sascha’s narrow waist, wanting to distribute his flames. “It’s our time now.”

 

And it was. Sascha reached main draw and gave his first round opponent a heavy run for his money; Mischa was winning in straights, made it to the third round without losing his stride. Every night they were calling, Skyping, often falling asleep with the other still up on the computer screen, and when Sascha lost on his fourth day he and Irina flew to Hertogenbosch to support Mischa. They arrived at the stadium ten minutes before first ball was struck and when Mischa saw them in the crowd during his first return game he stopped between points and put his hands on his hips and just grinned. Sascha hadn’t told him they were coming.

 

He read “ _auf geht’s_ ,” on Sascha’s beaming lips and that was it for him, he was dialed in. It took until 4-all in the first set but he grabbed a break and after that he only lost two more games. He was shining and Alex Sr. was the happiest Mischa had seen him in a while.

 

Irina and Sascha had arrived last minute and there was no time and wasted money to be had to procure them a separate hotel room, so they squeezed as best they could into the room that Mischa and Alex Sr. were sharing. The room was large but limited to two queen beds and as soon as the reality that they were going to be sharing one of those queen beds hit Mischa and Sascha looked at each other like they’d been electrified. They’d shared beds before, of course, most often on opposite ends of Sash’s California king, but under this current, most unusual set of circumstances, they were entering dangerous territory. With their parents sleeping inches away it was unlikely that the situation could proceed in any kind of slippery manner but they were still going to be lying basically on top of each other and given the fact that Sascha seemed capable of sending Mischa up in hellfire flames with the barest of touches, ideal rest seemed unlikely.

 

Mischa had finished his match early so they had hours to explore the city if they so wished. Irina and Sascha, having taxied directly from the airport, dumped their minimal gear in the hotel room (and Sascha, after appraising the sleeping situation, gave Mischa a layered look that he felt as a hot current in his lower belly) before they set out. Sascha was clamoring for coffee and Mischa was starved so they found a cafe on the river that served both purposes, sat outside under shelter from the early May sun. Despite the spine-climbing, insidious heat, Sascha ordered his coffee hot, with “lots of half and half” and Mischa found himself transfixed by the movement of Sascha’s bird-boned wrist as he tipped the cold thick cream into his cup. Alex Sr. called his younger son crazy, all affection, and Mischa grinned for Sascha’s self-conscious teenage flush.

 

“Let him be, he qualified,” said Irina, scrunching Sascha’s flippant curls. “And he drank a cup of this every day before he won, too.”

 

“It’s obviously my secret,” said Sascha, defensively. “Although I guess I should have had more last night.”

 

“Don’t beat yourself up, Sash, you played the second seed,” said Mischa. “Where are you playing next week? Marseille?”

 

“Uh, yeah, I think,” said Sascha, looking to their mother, who nodded. “And then junior French. Are we playing doubles there?”

 

“I would,” said Mischa seriously. “That would be great experience for him, don’t you think, Dad?”

 

“It would,” said Alex. “I don’t know. If you want to, Meesh, and if you think you’re ready, Sash?”

 

“Yes,” they said together, zealously, and grinned at each other.

 

“We’ll enter your names and see if you qualify,” said Irina. “We might be able to get you in on a wildcard.”

 

“We’ll have to get a condo for the week,” said Alex. “You’ll be main draw, though, Meesh, so that’ll be excellent.”

 

Mischa raised his eyebrows, sucked in a breath. He hadn’t thought about it but he’d only made two main slam draws without a wildcard before and never, never at the French Open. What a strange thought, that he was doing so well, and so quickly. “I guess I will,” he said. Across the table Sascha was beaming at him.

 

“You’re off next week,” said Alex. “We could go to Marseille with Sash and your mum so you can practice with him or we could go on to Paris and get the room set up. Think about it.”

 

“I want to go with Sash and Mum,” said Mischa immediately. “I’ll be in good form for the French if I can rest and hit with you all week, Sash. I’ve won way more matches than I thought I would so I’m definitely going to be match tough.”

 

“I think you two should come,” said Irina. “Sash, you do really well when Mischa is there to practice with you, and Meesh, you’d be match tough if you withdrew from this tournament tomorrow. We’ll have to double up again in Marseille, though, if we want to get a really good condo for Paris.”

 

And here she smiled enigmatically, raising the eyebrows she had bestowed upon her younger son.

 

Sascha said with a completely collected expression and twinkling eyes, “So you’re saying we get a sick place in Paris if me and Meesh can squeeze into one bed for another week?”

 

“Basically,” said Alex, and Mischa and Sascha swapped a loaded look. In his head Mischa was counting the days. Today was Wednesday. That meant at least four days, likely five or six until they’d get to Paris and be split into separate rooms, if they chose.

 

Mischa thought they might choose not.

 

“We can do that,” he said. “But Sash, if I wake up with your leg in my face, you’re getting the floor.”

 

Sascha looked into Mischa’s face, brimming with mirth, and laughed out loud. When they were younger Sascha used to sneak into Mischa’s bed at night when he couldn’t sleep and Mischa would wake up at all hours of the early morning with one of Sascha’s limbs thrown over his mouth, his chest, everywhere. Sascha was a restless sleeper as a kid but he’d calmed down in his teenage years, usually slept like he’d been knocked out, probably because all he did during the day was move and eat.

 

“Don’t worry,” he said, taking a huge gulp of his coffee. “I’ll stay on my side of the bed.”

 

But his eyes were the most wicked serpent-colored circles and Mischa understood that he was in for it, in for something, whatever Sascha had in mind, because there was emotion like an earthquake behind those eyes and the trigger was there. It was waiting to go off the moment they climbed in bed together that night.

 

*

“You’ll stay on your side of the bed, huh,” Mischa said under his breath as he and Sascha meandered along the side of the river, alive, alive, alive. Alex and Irina had left them alone to explore while they went wine tasting, so the hours stretched long and glorious before them. Sascha couldn’t stop smiling and Mischa was catching it, that happiness.

 

“Yeah, you like that line?” Sascha flicked a stray curl out of his face, smirked.

 

“I did, actually, because it’s such a fucking lie.” Amusement bubbled in Mischa’s voice and he couldn’t stop himself from bumping Sascha’s bony shoulder.

 

“What makes you so sure?” Sascha’s words were delighted and Mischa knew it was because with that shoulder-push he’d invited Sascha to touch him. When they really got into it their banter was his favorite; no one else in the world could wordplay with him like Sascha could, he could retort faster than breathing.

 

“Because I know you, brat,” said Mischa, teasing. “You couldn’t stay in one corner of a bed if your life was at stake for it.”

 

“Such little faith, big brother,” said Sascha, gasping, mock-insulted. “I’ve come a long way since I was five years old.”

 

“More like seven,” said Mischa, wrinkling his nose. “God. You’d still come to my room when you were like ten when you were afraid, or you couldn’t sleep.”

 

“Well, yeah,” said Sascha, and he wasn’t teasing now. “You’re the person that makes me feel safest in the world.”

 

Mischa felt the words in his chest, soft and warm as a fingertip caress on his face, and he had to stop for that; he hadn’t expected it. “Wait, really?”

 

“Mischa,” said Sascha, and he was fervent, so earnest. “Yes. You’re my person. You’re it for me. You’re like, I don’t know. Everything.”

 

“Saaaaash,” groaned Mischa, and he couldn’t help but gather his brother’s skinny frame into his chest, swam drowsily in the feeling of Sascha’s slow inhale-exhale against his torso. “You know you’re it for me too. Everything makes sense with you.” Quietly, with his mouth terrifyingly close to the side of Sascha’s neck.

 

When Sascha exhaled this time it was unsteady. Mischa knew that there were words his little brother was desperate to release to the air but he wasn’t sure how to frame them and by this point Mischa thought he understood them anyway because there was another word than _banter_ for all that verbal push-pull, all that loaded eye contact, and it was _flirting_. They were _flirting._

 

As soon as the rogue thought slashed across his mind he bit the inside of his cheek, sharply. Sascha was _sixteen_ ; Sascha was his _blood_. Sascha was his baby and he was taller than him now and not a baby at all but a beautiful almost-man, carved from bone and grace and good, and Mischa was sick over it. He slid his fingers through the nape of Sascha’s curls and felt Sascha’s huge hands dragging up his ribcage on both sides and he was breathless.

 

“Sash,” he said, gently, after a time, and Sascha pulled back to look at him and Mischa was suddenly amazed for how he could go from coy and sultry to open and honest in such a negligible amount of time. That was what he loved most about Sascha: he felt everything like mad, intensely, and he showed it without fear. It was also partially why Mischa felt apprehension curling in his bloodstream, because Sascha was looking at him in a way that confirmed, indeed, that they had been flirting. That they _were_ flirting. That he was, in all probability, fucked.

 

“You know what’s the best about traveling like this? No one knows us. We could be anyone,” said Sascha, quietly. “Anyone we want.”

 

“That’s true,” said Mischa. He swallowed. “For now. Until you get famous everywhere.”

 

“It’ll be you first,” said Sascha, grinning widely. “But right now, we’re just us. Just ordinary brothers, and no one at all knows who we are.”

 

“Alexander Zverev, you know well enough by now that we are the furthest thing from ordinary,” said Mischa, and he was kind of joking but kind of not, and Sascha’s eyes went bright as a solar ray.

 

“I know,” he said, and for the briefest of instants he leaned down and slid his forehead across Mischa’s own. Automatically Mischa raised his head and opened his mouth and he could taste Sascha’s warm coffee breath and the jolt of arousal that slashed him was deep as a blade wound. “Come on. Last thing we need is Mom and Dad to randomly pop up around here right now.”

 

“Fuck, Sash, when you put it that way,” said Mischa, parroting him, and Sascha jabbed him in the side.

 

“Shut up. If they caught me watching you that would be a whole different animal.”

 

“They would literally have me committed. Maybe murder me. I don’t know.” Mischa was laughing to cover the severity of the subject that they were oh so delicately dancing around.

 

“It wouldn’t just be you,” said Sascha, confidently. “I don’t get a pass cause I’m sixteen. It’s not like I was in a hurry to go anywhere.”

 

They were walking again now, trailing their fingers through the humid air like it was water, thick and swirling around them. “You stuck around,” said Mischa. He was conscious that he was being more cautious than he’d ever been in his life, but he still couldn’t help but continue. “You and your ‘not sorry’.”

 

Sascha shrugged. “Well, I’m not.”

 

Mischa wanted to tell him that he’d wanted him there, that he’d lured him in, but he recognized that this was something they’d be alluding to and referencing without actually spelling anything out for ages before either of them took it further - if they did. He wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted to happen but right now he was full speed ahead, no red lights for miles. “I know,” he said. “I’m not, either.”

 

Sascha said, quite patiently, “For which time?”

 

“You’re so bold,” said Mischa with not a little wonder. “I never was like that.”

 

“You are with me,” said Sascha. “You are right now.”

 

“Not as bold as I’d like to be,” said Mischa without thinking, and Sascha’s answering grin was slow and vulpine.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” said Mischa, measuring his words. A tablespoon of bashfulness, a teaspoon of embarrassment, a whole heaping cup of caution.

 

“I’m still trying to figure YOU out,” said Sascha, and Mischa could tell he was looking so he looked back. Sascha’s eyes were incredibly intense.

 

“You know me better than anyone,” said Mischa. It was the truth. Sascha knew everything about him, as much as one person could know about another, just as he was more familiar with Sascha than he was with himself.

 

“Not like this,” said Sascha softly.

 

“You’re right,” said Mischa, because what else could he say to that? His stomach was braids and knots and his palms were damp. He was nervous, he realized, Sascha was making him nervous, but it wasn’t the bad kind. “You know how you said we have to be careful because everyone is watching?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“We have to be like that now. We’re sleeping two feet from Mom and Dad.” Mischa knew exactly what he was trying to say but once again he wouldn’t or maybe couldn’t speak in specifics.

 

“I don’t know, Meesh. You know it’s impossible for me to stay on my side of the bed.” Sascha was teasing but not teasing and that was how they had been for ages now. Mischa felt like he had with his only serious girlfriend, performing the pre-dating dance of advance, withdraw, advance, withdraw. Neither would show their full hand of cards for fear of exposure without reciprocation. Sascha was showing him that he had two high diamonds but Mischa couldn’t be sure what was on the remaining three cards. He remembered how Sascha had been petulant about Johanna, jealous for Mischa’s attentions, and more often than not Johanna, who wasn’t involved in the tennis world at all, had lost out to practices and camps and tournament travel. The year they’d been together they’d barely been in each other’s physical presence, and eventually she’d broken it off, frustrated, high and dry from Mischa’s commitments to everything other than her. The only time it had really been good, he realized, was the early phase. The flirtatious phase.

 

It was so fucked that he was thinking about this in terms of his and Sascha’s relationship.

 

“Well, thank God they both sleep like the dead, then,” he said, and he reached back to grab Sascha by the scruff of his neck, press fingers into skin. The way Sascha beamed for his touch made Mischa’s heart feel like melting butter, sweet and warm, lovely. Sascha had always been like that with him; he was as affectionate as he had been when he was a little chub-cheeked child, it was just that it was different now. For both of them.

 

After a time Sascha said, “Do you think we’ll get in? To the French, I mean?” And Mischa loved that Sascha could talk about something other than the burgeoning tension between them; even if it was always on his mind, he was capable of redirecting.

 

“I bet they’ll give us a wild card. Especially since you’re playing Marseille and you’re ranked high in juniors.” Mischa grinned. “God. Juniors. That seems ages ago.”

 

“Cause you’re ancient.” Sascha nudged him, shook errant hair from his eyes. “I remember watching you at junior French.”

 

“I remember you cheering for me,” said Mischa, fondly. “You and your little German flag and your Borg headband.”

 

“Never giving that shit up,” said Sascha. “That’ll be my trademark.”

 

“It already is.”

 

“Yours is your weird forehand.”

 

“I like my weird forehand, thank you,” said Mischa, mock-insulted. “Helped you learn, didn’t it?”

 

“Still does.” Sascha looked out at the river. His eyes were jade in the reflective light and the hair he kept pushing impatiently to the side fell rebelliously across his line of sight again. “Want me to warm you up tomorrow morning?”

 

Mischa’s mouth twisted for the word choice. “What else are you gonna do?”

 

“Fuck myself, I guess,” said Sascha, laughing. This time he was the one who spoke without thinking and Mischa looked at him amused, one raised eyebrow; Sascha caught his expression and flushed. “Shut up.”

 

“Nah. Come hit with me, Dad’ll drag you out of bed anyway. You’re good for me, little brother, and he knows it.” Mischa was thinking about _fuck myself_ too hard and he tried not to let it show on his face.

 

“I’m not little,” said Sascha, habitually.

 

“Yeah, I know you’re not,” said Mischa, his eyes going top to bottom on Sascha’s body, making zero effort to hide the canvassing.

 

Sascha exploded in laughter, and there was his youth, shining excitability. “Everything has a double meaning now.”

 

“Hey, you’re the one who said you were going to fuck yourself,” said Mischa, raising his palms. He was good at this and he knew it and he was tired of Sascha having the upper hand. “I’m just saying, you’re sixteen and you have three inches on me.”

 

“MISCHA.”

 

“What? I’m talking about your height, you goon.” Mischa nicked Sascha under his chin. “Not there. Obviously you don’t have me beat _there_.”

 

“And you know this how?” Sascha had recovered enough to clap back.

 

“Are you really asking me this?”

 

“What? You left before I was done. It was dark.” Sascha shrugged. “You can’t have had a good look.”

 

“I tried not to look at all. You know, to respect your privacy.”

 

“Bullshit.” Sascha’s face was glowing. “You’re as curious as I am.”

 

“Yeah, well. It’s a family trait.” Mischa tugged his shirtsleeve down. “I’m sure we’ll find out plenty about each other in the next couple of days, since we’re sharing such close quarters and all.”

 

“What can you find out about me that you don’t already know?” Sascha was daring him.

 

Mischa was aware. “Do you even want to know the answer to that question?”

 

“Why do you always answer a question with a question?”

 

“Because you usually know the answer to what you’re asking, Sash. You don’t need me to tell you.”

 

“I like to hear different perspectives.” Sascha smiled. “Well, then. What can I find out about YOU that I don’t already know?”

 

“You said you were trying to figure me out,” said Mischa frankly. “You already have your starting point. Go from there.”

 

The rest of the day, they went with the wind. They followed the river until the concrete walk ran out, found an antique shop and a record store right next to each other, bought gelato (Sascha cookie dough, Mischa fudge brownie) that started to melt as soon as it hit the air. Mischa watched Sascha watching the way his tongue curled around the frigid cream, held the cone and let him lean over and sneak a taste. Sascha might only have been sixteen but he could put on a show.

 

“Have some of mine,” said Sascha, and as he watched voraciously, Mischa licked from base to crown of his brother’s ice cream cone. He understood more than he wanted to that their entire lives would be based around innuendos right now.

 

They met back with Alex and Irina after twilight, ordered pizza for dinner and ate it on the balcony of their hotel. Alex promised Mischa if he won the next night that they could go for Thai, his favorite, and Mischa made the deal knowing he’d get Thai anyway. His father’s incentives were frequent but he usually delivered regardless of the outcome of his sons’ matches.

 

Sascha and Mischa were in two realities: one where they were normal with their parents, everything the same, maybe closer than brothers usually were but in a range that was completely within average limits. The other was this newfound territory, this weird fluctuation between what was and what might be, what should and what shouldn’t be. In this reality they were looking at each other sideways, studying each other from new perspectives, lines and angles and endless inches of skin. Mischa was convinced that any moment their parents would mention how strange they were acting, but it was in his head, they didn’t have an inkling. Every one of his nerve endings was on edge but the only other person in the vicinity who felt that same current was Sascha.

 

Sascha, who always waited until the second before bed to remove his shirt like it was a ritual, who hunched down in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee to appear smaller than his gargantuan height, who had to eat ranch on his pizza crust no matter how fancy it was. Sascha, who was so quick to smile and so slow to doubt. Mischa was prouder of his brother by lightyears than any of his own accomplishments, and he was so afraid to fuck this up. There wasn’t even a “this” to fuck up yet.

 

They were up a bit later than their parents. It was ten o clock and Mischa was mildly strict about bedtime when he was playing a tournament - between ten and eleven was preferable, and no later than eleven fifteen. He and Sascha sat under a killing moon surrounded by stacks and stacks of platinum stars, hunted constellations, looked lingeringly at each other. Things were different after dark. Difficult seas were easier to navigate under the ravenfeather guidance of night.

 

Sascha said sleepily, “What time tomorrow?”

 

“I’m supposed to play around 5:30. I’m good for like 45 minutes at 10.” Mischa stretched his arms over his head. “If you wanna hit more later when I’m done we can, or Mum will stay with you.”

 

“Yeah, that’s good.” Sascha was plucking fuzzies from his gym shorts, anxious. It was closer to ten thirty every second. “I’m gonna convert you on that coffee.”

 

“Oh, I’m a convert, I just like mine iced.” Mischa yawned. “There’ll be coffee. This hotel isn’t fancy but they have good breakfast.”

 

“Yeah? Beds nice?” Casually.

 

“Uh huh. Why, you tired?” Mischa kicked playfully at Sascha’s foot, perched on the balcony railing.

 

“Aww, Meesh. Are you trying to get me into bed?” Sascha was smirking.

 

“Well, I’m trying to get me into bed, and you’re my hitting partner and I need you fresh, soooo...yes.”

 

“Fair enough. Come on, big brother.” Sascha stood up, stretched out a hand for Mischa to take. Mischa looked at him, looked at his hand, and after a beat he took it. Sascha pulled him up and they both tried to ignore the shock that occurred when their palms came flush. On their way inside Mischa trailed one slow finger down Sascha’s spine and the younger paused for that and hissed in a soft breath and Mischa’s palm bloomed open like a flower against his lower back.

 

Sascha looked back at him.

 

“Think they’re asleep?” In Russian.

 

“Yeah, Dad conks out in five seconds,” said Mischa, in German. “Get your stuff, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

 

Sascha was big but he moved like a panther and in one drop to his haunches and twenty seconds he had an armful of supplies. Mischa was right behind him and they shut themselves into the darkness of the little room and for a second they were close, close, close in pitch black. Mischa could hear Sascha breathing and his body had been interested all day but now he was hard. When Sascha flipped the switch he watched his pupils adjust in the bathroom mirror, clenching his teeth against primal instinct.

 

“Well,” whispered Sascha, watching Mischa’s expression with attentiveness. “Here we are in the bathroom again.”

 

Mischa snorted, an ugly, hilarious sound that set Sascha off too. “With the lights on this time.”

 

“Oof. Harsh reality it is.” Sascha inspected the overhead light, glaring in its fluorescence. “I hate these. They’re so clinical.”

 

“Same. We won’t have to deal with that in Paris.” Mischa was unsure of what to do with his limbs cooped up in such a tiny space with Sascha. “Are you honestly tired?”

 

“Eh. Was.” Sascha looked sideways at him. “Kind of awake now.”

 

“Uh huh.” Mischa looked back. “So.”

 

“So.” Sascha had already determined that he was going to brush his teeth before participating in any activities that involved changing clothes, so he set about it, fully aware of Mischa’s every move. Mischa followed suit and they scrubbed away in silence, taking turns to spit like they always did. Everything felt exceptionally routine.

 

When they had fully exhausted the list of hygienic things to complete before bedtime, Mischa, feeling ridiculous, reached for his sleep shorts. Sascha grabbed his at the same time and they looked at each other in the mirror.

 

“Sash, turn the light off,” said Mischa steadily, because his body was refusing to listen to him, refusing to cooperate with the perfectly normal situation of changing in the bathroom with his brother, in front of whom he had changed clothes hundreds of times in his life. This was not a time for excitement.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Because we’re gonna play Bloody Mary, genius. Just do it.” Mischa huffed. “Please?”

 

But Sascha was insatiable. “Why, Meesh?”

 

“Because, I,” said Mischa, but of course he couldn’t tell the truth. “Because.”

 

“Mischa,” said Sascha kindly, wiser than his age suggested. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

 

“I know that,” said Mischa quietly. “But I have no idea what I’m fucking doing right now.”

 

“Me neither,” said Sascha. “But I literally watched you blow your load like a week ago, so if you’re worried about what I might see, you’re being insane.”

 

Mischa laughed, an unsteady thing. “THIS is insane.”

 

“I know.”

 

In the clear mercury of the mirror their eyes locked. Mischa shook his head and grinned.

 

“You’re right. Fuck it.”

 

He stripped off his shirt and undid his jeans and then he was in boxers holding his gym shorts and Sascha was watching, making no effort to hide his appraisal, brazen interest in his polychromatic eyes. Mischa was all muscle, more solid and brawn than the bone and graceful sinew of Sascha’s youth, and he was fascinating.

 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it,” Sascha said, and his voice was rust. Still with his eyes trained in Mischa’s direction he pulled off his t-shirt and dropped it to the floor, conscious of how tiny he was compared to his brother, all length with no breadth.

 

“Actually, no,” said Mischa as he stepped into his shorts. He was watching Sascha like he’d been colorblind his whole life and all the hues and shades of the world had suddenly appeared vibrant upon Sascha’s body. “Now you quit being self conscious.”

 

Sascha felt color spreading like paint-by-numbers up his throat. “I’m not – ”

 

“Sascha, you’re beautiful,” interrupted Mischa gently, and Sascha felt his blood - Mischa’s blood - surge, joy like a melody, basking in his brother’s praise.

 

“I’m not,” he said again, ducking his head. One hand reached gently to tap along Mischa’s collarbone, but Sascha was shy now and he dropped his hand almost instantly. “You’re the beautiful one.”

 

Mischa chuckled. The air felt tender now and he was comfortable within this territory. This was how they were with each other. It was normal for them.

 

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, and Sascha dropped his jeans, slid into his own gym shorts, and followed Mischa into the darkness of the hotel room. Back under the veil of night they clambered into bed, careful of their noise level. When they’d situated under the covers it became quite clear that some portion of their bodies was going to be in contact all night: calling the bed a queen had been generous.

 

“I miss my bed,” whispered Sascha.

 

“I miss your bed, too,” agreed Mischa. The left side of his body was on fire with Sascha’s proximity. “Are your toes off the end of the bed?”

 

“A bit, yeah.” Sascha squirmed. “Being tall is great.”

 

“Looks good on you,” whispered Mischa, and Sascha snorted.

 

Five minutes of silence passed.

 

“Mischa.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Can I put my leg over yours?”

 

Mischa rolled his head to the side, sought Sascha’s gaze. “You don’t have to ask, Sash.”

 

“Hey, you said I’d be sleeping on the floor if you woke up with my thigh on your mouth.”

 

Mischa was rumbling in his chest, mirthful. “That’s different. Knock yourself out.”

 

So Sascha flopped on his stomach, moved his leg so it was thrown over Mischa’s shins, careful to keep his entire torso pressed into the mattress. They were so, so close, and Mischa was so, so hard. In frustration he pressed the heel of his hand against the hot urgent line of his cock and bit the inside of his cheek.

 

Sleep was going to be a joke.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised...more :)
> 
> Also I have no idea how tall Sash was at age sixteen so I'm just going with a nice safe 6'4 or so.

In truth they both probably slept for seven hours. There was a lot of idle talking and a lot of shifting around and a lot of wide-open eyes, rabbity hearts. In the morning Mischa woke up with Sascha’s thigh tossed over his hips and in that moment he decided that if there was a god he was indeed merciful because he had not, for once in his life, developed morning wood. He shook Sascha gently awake and was graced with the radiance of Sascha’s sleepy smile before Irina and Alex were rallying them for breakfast.

They got their coffee; Sascha’s was steaming, Mischa’s was dark as midnight and just as cold. Opposite.

As soon as they stepped outside Mischa knew it was going to be ridiculous in the heat. Both he and Sascha were shirtless within ten minutes of practice and he had to put out of his mind the way Sascha moved, all lanky grace and stark bones against skin that was just starting to go bronze for the summer. He was in good form and he gave Mischa a workout and by the time they were finished the elder of the Zverev brothers was in an excellent mindset for that evening’s match. 

“You look good, Meesh,” said Irina approvingly as her sons toweled off at the side of the court. Sweat pearled and dropped and danced along their skin, and their faces were warm and crimson from the temperature, but they were happy.

“Mum, SASH looks good,” said Mischa, and Sascha grinned so big he could feel the air change, fill up with happiness. “That forehand.”

“You’ve come a long way, Sash,” said Alex Sr., roughing Sascha’s hair fondly. “You’ll be strong at the French. Both of you. Now come on, Meesh, let’s get you out of the heat.”

They spent the afternoon mostly in the hotel room, popping out for lunch, playing scrabble and card games until Mischa’s mild anxiety took over and he announced that he wanted to be at the facility. His match began right on scheduled time and the second his feet hit the court he knew that he was dialed in. Sascha was there and he knew that he could look to him for grounding; for encouragement. He was playing the fifth seed but he was ready. 

They took it to three sets. Mischa lost the first but he roared back in the second and now in the final set they were even at 5-5. He had this thing where he toweled off his face with the bottom of his shirt between points and even at this most crucial of moments he was aware that Sascha’s eyes were glued to his exposed skin. The attention bolstered him and he won his serve at love for 6-5 and the whole changeover he just looked at Sascha, sitting with his ice towel draped over his shoulders, barely blinking. Sascha looked back, unswervingly, knowing that Mischa needed all of him. When Mischa stood up to go take his place at the baseline the entire Zverev box was on its feet, led by Sascha, shouting encouragement in three languages. Mischa didn’t say a word, just nodded at his parents and then locked eyes with Sascha again. His face was all intensity.

He won the game in five points, three of which were winners, and just like that he was in his second semifinal in a row. In his box, his family was screaming, and the pride on Sascha’s face made Mischa’s blood sing. He took the world’s fastest shower, joked and laughed his way through press, and when he made it down into the player lounge Sascha was there waiting for him, curled up in a beanbag chair watching one of the other quarterfinals on tv. There was no one else in the room and it wouldn’t have mattered either way because Mischa only had eyes for his brother.

“Sash,” he said, and Sascha was on his feet so fast, sprinting at him, grabbing him around the waist, as stoked as if he’d won a Slam final. Mischa couldn’t remember being this happy in ages.

“Two semis in a row, Meesh,” said Sascha, positively beaming into Mischa’s shoulder. “You dragged that one out.”

“Yeah, that third set was rough.” Mischa reached up to fold his fingers around the scruff of Sascha’s neck. “Never felt like I’d lose, though.”

“Me neither,” said Sascha. “Even after that first set.”

“Same.” Mischa pulled back, touched the tip of his finger to Sascha’s freckle-spattered nose. “Where are Mum and Dad?”

“Both scouting matches for you,” said Sascha, grabbing Mischa’s wrist when he tried to bop him again. “Mum was also on the hunt for a Thai restaurant on her phone like, as soon as you won.”

“Oh thank god,” said Mischa, even though he was never hungry immediately after a match. “And you? You didn’t go with them?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sascha bent and put his forehead to Mischa’s, still holding his wrist so he couldn’t move his arm, and suddenly the light air was still and fiery and strange. “Like I wouldn’t be here when you got done with press.” 

Mischa breathed him, counted starry freckles on his brother’s high cheekbones, let his wrist go slack so Sascha dropped their arms. He knew that anyone could walk in at any second but fuck if he even had the wherewithal to pull away. “Like I would ever have let you live it down if you weren’t here.”

“Exactly.” Sascha’s voice was barely audible. He was trembling but Mischa thought he might be imagining it because of how badly he needed the playing field to be even. “You looked solid as fuck today, Meesh.”

Mischa’s smile expanded like a billowing flag and he could not keep the mischief from it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. That was an interesting towel you were using.” Their foreheads were still together and Sascha had shifted so their torsos were nearly flush. Mischa wondered if he would push any further.

“Uh huh. That shirt’s kinda ruined.” Mischa tilted his head just slightly, clucked his tongue. “Saw you looking.”

“Of course I was fucking looking,” said Sascha, and his voice was raw. “I see you’ve learned how to tease.”

Mischa withdrew for that, mock-affronted, eyes diamond glitter. “You have no idea how I tease.” 

“Well, I’m learning,” said Sascha, courageously. “I’m sure you’ll keep teaching me.”

Mischa swallowed, looked away, swore.

“Fuck, Sash.”

“Yeah.” The word was an agreement.

“We should go find them,” said Mischa, because his belly was starting to pool with lava and his fingers were itching. “The player’s lounge isn’t exactly - safe.”

Sascha met his gaze and nodded in silence, but Mischa knew he wanted to speak, so he waited. Sascha cleared his throat.

“Where is safe?” 

“Uh.” Mischa blew out a breath; he knew what Sascha was asking. _Where can we do this and get away with it._ “Somewhere no one else is. A room with a locked door. Somewhere no one can walk in.”

A beat. Then Sascha said, half-ruefully, “I guess we’re fucked until we get to Paris.”

“There’s always the bathroom,” offered Mischa, and they looked at each other and gave the most shit-eating of grins because it was true and they both knew it. The bathroom had become their haven.

They found their parents with ease and hung around for a good forty-five minutes so Mischa could lay eyes on his potential next opponent, get the gist of what he might have to do the next day. When he was confident in his knowledge they left the facility to go to a local Thai restaurant that Irina had researched thoroughly - “it’s top rated on Yelp,” she’d said, and that had been good enough for the rest of them. Qualifying draws for Sascha’s tournament had been released and he had drawn the eighth seed but he dismissed the number with a wave of his hand. 

“Meesh is in the hundreds and look how good he is,” he said. 

“And you’re not even ranked and you’re winning matches in the big leagues,” Mischa pointed out.

“Eh. Ain’t nothing but a thing,” said Sascha in his perfect English, and he grinned. Mischa could tell he was pleased.

Mischa was scheduled for three p.m. the next day. Sascha’s first qualifying match was Sunday at 11 am, so he and Irina were flying to Marseilles the next evening regardless of the outcome of Mischa’s match. They had a room booked and according to a quick Google search that the boys did in the back of the rental car the beds were closer to full than queen.

“Uh, mum,” said Sascha, pushing his phone up into Irina’s hand to show her the incriminating photos. “These beds are ridiculous.”

“I know, it’s not ideal,” said Irina, scrolling with her mouth pursed. “We can probably get a little air mattress if you guys can’t fit together.”

“I’m more worried about being six four,” said Sascha, flipping hair out of his eyes, determinedly not looking at Mischa, who was staring at his own phone screen in order to keep his expression neutral. He was smiling at nothing these days.

“Yeah, that’s my fault,” said Alex from the front seat, grinning into the rear view mirror at his sons. He was six three and a half and he had bestowed his impressive height upon both of his children. 

“The sick thing is, you’re not even done growing,” said Mischa, chin to fist looking sideways at Sascha, who stuck his tongue out at an angle. “It disgusts me that you’re sixteen and you’re taller than I am.” 

“Mischa,” said Sascha, drawing his name out so every letter of his name hummed, “don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Little bit, yeah,” said Mischa, and he shoved Sascha playfully sideways. Sascha pushed back with a tiny snort of delight and they grappled briefly before Mischa gave Sascha a warning squeeze on his forearm and retreated. The flitter of eye contact they made was blood-deep.

To redirect his attention Sascha asked, “Are we going back to the hotel?”

“If you guys want to. It’s about nine,” said Alex. “Although there are like six ice cream shops around here and I want some.”

Mischa grinned. “Subtle, Dad.” 

“It’s his specialty,” said Irina fondly. To her husband she said, “The next time you see one, stop.”

So he did. For the second time in as many days, Sascha and Mischa were subject to the strange pleasure-torture of watching each other eat ice cream, but this time with their parents so close by they had to scale it back a tad. Even still, Mischa caught himself watching, and when he chanced a glance more often than not Sascha was looking back at him.

That night they all played Scrabble in the hotel room and when they were done (Irina won, handily) Mischa was ready to sleep, for once in his life before the rest of his family. Alex and Irina retired to the balcony together while Mischa made ready for sleep and Sascha lounged lazily on the bed, watching sleazy true crime in his gym shorts. When Mischa climbed into bed he stretched like a jungle cat, sprawled on his stomach. Without intention his thigh brushed Sascha’s leg and the teenager sat up straight, jolted.

Mischa was sleepy but he recognized that Sascha, so strict about his nightly routine, had deviated by going shirtless earlier than normal. “Are you going to sleep?”

“After this episode, probably.” Sascha looked down at him, his broad bronze expanse of muscular back. “Why?”

“I’ve never known you to take off your shirt more than two minutes before you get in bed.” 

“Maybe I’m hot,” said Sascha defensively.

Mischa chuckled, warm rumble in his throat. “You do you, kiddo. You’re usually just so regimented. I asked you about it once when you were like eleven and you told me it messed with your juju to change your routine.” 

“Hah. I was such a cute kid.” Sascha was grinning. “Honestly, Meesh. What even is a routine right now? I don’t think we’ve ever traveled together for tennis this much in our lives.” 

“I don’t think so either.” Mischa’s eyes were closed, but he was infinitely aware of Sascha’s body, pulsating with life against his skin. “I can’t wait for Paris.”

“You sick of sharing beds already?” Sascha’s voice was teasing.

“No, I’m sick of having zero privacy,” said Mischa, low, in Russian. “This room isn’t big enough for us and Mom and Dad, you know?”

Sascha thought he knew what Mischa was saying. “Been a while for you, too, huh.”

“Man, I can’t even jack off in the shower, it’s too weird with them out here all the time,” said Mischa. His words were lazy but they came out as a frustrated hiss.

“Yeah,” said Sascha, triumphant. He’d guessed correctly. “I couldn’t knowing Mum was in the room last week, either. It just feels dirty like that. But I’m going literally insane.”

“Uh huh.” Mischa squirmed onto his side, threw an arm up over his head. “I need to.”

“Me too.” Sascha was holding his breath. “What about the locker room showers? They’re pretty deserted now, yeah?”

“Yeah. I almost did today but I wanted to get back to you guys as soon as possible.” He meant _get back to you_ and Sascha knew it. “Anyway, don’t kill me if I have a wet dream or something.”

Sascha’s laugh was sharp, surprised, melodious. “As long as you don’t kill me if I have one.” 

“Less dangerous now cause this bed is decent sized,” said Mischa frankly. “Next week I may actually wake up on top of you, and then you’d really be fucked.”

“Yeah. And sticky.”

Mischa rolled to look at his brother then; in the fluttering clinical light of the television Sascha’s face was burning. Mischa grinned and chucked him under the chin.

“Soon, baby brother.” 

“Yeah, well, if I don’t cum within twenty four hours I might have a wet fucking daydream.”

Mischa’s eyebrows bridged nearly to his low dark hairline.

“Yeah? About what?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” said Sascha, softly.

“Who says I don’t want to know?”

“Me.” Sascha’s eyes were black, absent of light in the odd flicker of the screen. “Trust me.”

Subconsciously Mischa swept his tongue over his upper lip. He was dying for the forbidden knowledge but he knew Sascha well enough not to push; it would get him nowhere, maybe a backward step. “Well then. You had better cum, hadn’t you?”

He spidered his fingers over Sascha’s shoulder blades, hooked them around the scruff of his neck, squeezed. Sascha leaned back into the touch, closed his eyes. His sigh was so low as to be nearly inaudible but Mischa was attuned to everything his brother did and he heard the sound as clearly as a wolf whistle. Gently he scraped his fingers up through Sascha’s hair, over his scalp, scratched.

Sascha hissed. “Mischa.”

“What.” Mischa wasn’t asking for a response; he didn’t need one. He knew what was on the edge of Sascha’s tongue because everything Sascha was doing lately was turning him on and he was as familiar with his brother as he was with himself and he knew that Sascha was in a state of perpetual arousal, too. He didn’t stop; on the balcony their parents’ voices were a low, senseless drone and under his fingertips Sascha’s flesh was raised, goosebumps speckled everywhere.

Sascha groaned, laughed. “You’re not helping.”

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“Never.” Sascha looked back at him and Mischa knew he was serious. Around his neck the chain of Mischa’s cross glinted.

So Mischa rubbed the knots and bumps out of Sascha’s back, soft unmarred skin decorated by delicate bones. Sascha kept his knees up to his face but he was purring constantly and after a bit Mischa sat up and kneaded at his tension with both hands, legs crossed Indian-style in front of him so he wouldn’t give in to the urge to open his thighs around Sascha’s back, encircle him from behind. When Sascha was rubber and clay beneath his touch he eased up, rested his forehead between Sascha’s shoulder blades, and there they sat for a good five minutes until they heard stirrings from the balcony. 

They jumped apart like they’d been electrocuted. Sascha leapt from the bed, crossed the floor to the bathroom, had the door barred firmly behind him before Mischa had even registered what he was doing. He knew that Sascha could not master himself in front of Alex and Irina right now, and he wasn’t alone. In one swift motion he was under the covers and on his stomach with his eyes closed, pulse a jackhammer in his veins, hyperaware, and there he stayed while his parents re-entered the room and moved quietly around preparing for bed. If he feigned sleep he’d survive this.

It felt like eons until he heard the bathroom door click softly open; Alex and Irina greeted Sascha in hushed voices, to which he responded that the bathroom was theirs. When he slid under the blankets beside Mischa he was warm and solid and his movement was fluid, supple, free of the tension that had moments ago been undulating beneath the surface of his skin. Gentle fingertips landed on Mischa’s shoulder and Sascha’s mouth dropped to his ear.

“Are you awake?”

“What do you think.” Mischa rolled to face him, grinned deviously. “Better?”

“Much.” Sascha caught a glimpse of his expression. “Shut up.” 

“You’re doing better than I am.” Mischa twisted his mouth. “You’re so warm.”

“It happens,” said Sascha, shyly. “Sorry I ran.”

“There’s no need to be. I’d have done the same thing.” Mischa chucked him lightly on the nose. “Go to sleep, _liebling._ ”

“Can you?” Sascha was sweet-sleepy now, satisfied. He tucked his arm under his pillow and Mischa smiled for how lovely he looked, his concern. 

“I can,” whispered Mischa. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Okay. I love you,” hummed Sascha.

“I love you too, Sash.”

And this was their life. They’d always been like this, never shy about their affection, never pulling away from expressing emotion. Sascha had hung from Mischa’s shoulders until he was too tall for it, followed him everywhere in adoration, and in turn Mischa had given him everything. He had always been curious about how their relationship would play out as Sascha got older but he had never put more than a fleeting thought here or there to it; now, he was completely unsure how to proceed. 

He fell asleep wondering, face to face with his brother, and when he woke up Sascha’s arm under the covers was curled around his torso and they were pressed flush. The gods that had been on his side just 24 hours ago were violently against him today; he was painfully hard, and when Sascha opened his eyes and shifted his hips the expression on his face was absolutely immoral. Mischa knew that he knew what was happening.

“Good _morning,_ ” he whispered, all rogue, and Mischa gave him his best _fuck off_ expression. He reached down between them to adjust himself; they were so close that Mischa could not avoid brushing his brother’s stomach with his knuckles and where his touch landed Sascha’s skin burned. Sascha’s eyes went saucer-wide.

The curtains had been parted and the room was vivid adobe orange with the radiance of first sunlight and the air was silent, silent, silent. All concept of time had been skewed; nothing felt real, as though they were hovering in between dreams. Then Sascha’s big hand curled possessively around Mischa’s hip and he burrowed, settled his body so his front was perfectly matched to his brother’s own. In his eyes intent glowed like flame. 

Mischa thought he was going to explode.

In the end their standstill was shattered by Irina returning to the room with a cup of coffee from the breakfast room; both boys feigned fresh wakefulness and Mischa grabbed the oversized shirt he’d thrown on the nightstand the evening before. He slipped it on and tucked himself, hoofed it into the bathroom, nearly sobbed with relief when he rubbed out that first stroke. The amount of pre-come he’d leaked already was shameful but it made his swollen skin cool-slick and he came quick and hard like an eruption, gobs of thick cream spattering over his belly, through his fingers. Messy.

In his head, the phantom friction of Sascha rucking their hips a fraction of an inch together, his brother’s hand wrapped around his hipbone. Too close. Not close enough.

*

Later in the breakfast room, facing the majestic array of food with a coffee cup in hand, Sascha leaned over Mischa’s shoulder and hissed in German, “Did you?”

Mischa’s answering grin was wolf-like.

“Yes.”

They couldn’t talk about these things with other people near them ever so they were reduced to whispers and shadows, little secrets. There was no privacy to be had for brothers who acted the way that they did.

“Better?”

Mischa snickered. “Brand new.”

Practice was short and hard and all sweat. Sascha was hot; Mischa picked up on his form and they spent the whole thirty minutes exchanging screamers from the baseline, cracking return winners and aces, the most intense session they’d had in a while. They were peaking before the French and their parents, always supportive and beaming for them regardless of form or attitude or situation, could hardly leash their enthusiasm.

In the player’s lounge half an hour before go time Sascha gave Mischa his earbuds and pressed play and they stood shadowboxing in the corner, mouthy rap and macabre witch house alternating in Mischa’s ears. Sascha kept Mischa warm until he was due to go on and before he walked on court he raked his fingers through Mischa’s hair, pressed hard into his back. 

“Go,” he said simply, and Mischa went.

He’d never felt in danger of losing in his quarterfinal match but today from the first ball he didn’t actually believe it was possible for him to lose. He was seeing the ball like it was as big as a volleyball and there was no tension in his body to hold him back and his mind was as clear as the crystal sky. The form he’d presented in his practice had held up; Sascha had prepared him well. He didn’t feel like he could miss.

He did miss - but only a few times, and with every error committed he was going for it. He won the first set 6-3 without facing a break point, went up 1-0 in the second, and all the while Sascha in the corner was screaming for him.

At 3-3, after landing a gorgeous drop shot, Mischa went up 30-40 on his opponent’s serve. When he looked to his box with his fist raised and his face totally calm he found his family on their feet once again, hollering encouragement and instructions, and as he watched Sascha raised Mischa’s cross from his neck and kissed it. He could not have been saying _do the thing_ more clearly. 

So Mischa did the thing. He got a short second serve in the box and whaled a return winner down the line, finally turning to his family and roaring, “DAvai!” To which they responded, of course, with variations in different languages. Sascha had Mischa’s cross bitten between his teeth and out of sheer anxiety he started chewing it as a calming measure. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t, but Mischa caught him at it and gave him a brilliant smile, and just for that his heart slowed down a notch or two. If Mischa was calm eight points away from his second major final in a row, he could be, too.

He held his serve at thirty and the next fifteen minutes were the longest of his life. From 15-40 on his opponent’s serve he fought back to deuce, saved another game point, hit a winner for match point. Back and forth the two men went, conjuring brilliance with two racquets and a tennis ball until Mischa stood facing his fourth match point.

In the pre-point silence Sascha screamed clearly in Russian, “LET’S go Mischa, RIGHT now,” and Mischa looked to him and barked, “DAVAI,” through clenched teeth and he knew that was it. The serve he received was brilliant but he read it correctly and managed to smash it back deep in the court, forcing his opponent on his heels, and when he got the short reply he took care of business. It was over; he was a finalist on the major pro circuit for only the second time in his professional career.

When he met his family after press Irina was beaming, eyes watery, and Alex Sr. couldn’t really speak. They all stood together and hugged and laughed and Mischa almost forgot that they had to take Irina and Sascha to the airport after dinner.

Regardless, eating was always a spirited affair with the Zverev family, and tonight it was Italian because Mischa always did well on carbs or Asian food. Irina was a fucking champ when it came to finding dive restaurants with the most incredible food and she’d found them a Mom and Pop that boasted the best spaghetti in the city. Once they’d tasted it they had to figure that the claim wasn’t wrong; it was incredible.

In the car on the way to the airport Sascha and Mischa sprawled out in the backseat, Sascha’s arm tossed casually around Mischa’s shoulders, holding on. Being away for a night was nothing but it felt like a treacherous chasm they’d both have to jump, something unpleasant but necessary for continuation. They were getting used to being together even when they knew that was the biggest mistake to make. Sascha was better groomed for life on tour in the juniors and minor leagues right now and Mischa was already there. It would likely be close to a year before Sascha and Irina could travel with Alex and Mischa consistently.

“You’ll do beautifully, Sash,” said Mischa as they stood outside the car saying goodbye for what felt like the hundredth time that year. “And I’ll be there as soon as possible tomorrow.”

“Don’t think about that,” said Sascha, and it was a demand. “You have a final to concentrate on. If I don’t win a qualifying match it’s not the end of the world.”

“Okay, but you will, so shut up,” said Mischa, overriding him. “It’s just as important, Sash. You’re doing amazing.”

“Thanks. Hey,” said Sascha, blushing prettily for the praise, “I wanna give you something.”

He checked around to ensure that Irina and Alex were still in conversation - they were, Irina was giving her husband hotel information for the following week - before digging into his backpack pocket and producing a gold chain. Instantly Mischa recognized it as Sascha’s cross, nearly the same model that had been given to Mischa as a child. Sascha had worn Mischa’s cross as a reminder of his brother since he’d been just little; Mischa had given it to him when he’d started going on tour without him.

“Here,” said Sascha, and he dropped it bashfully in Mischa’s palm. “Have mine. I want you to wear it.”

“Sascha,” said Mischa, and his voice was rough.

“Let me put it on you,” said Sascha, and swiftly he locked it around Mischa’s neck, careful to brush his skin in the process. Mischa slipped it under his collar and felt the chain burning like Sascha was on every inch of it.

“Thank you,” said Mischa, quietly.

“I wish you could come with me,” said Sascha. His voice was mildly miserable. 

“I know. But I’ll see you in, like, twenty four hours.” Mischa roughed Sascha’s hair, held on longer than he should have when they hugged. “Text me immediately.”

“I will. Rest tonight.” Sascha gave him The Look, the one that meant serious business. “You can’t stay up Skyping me.” 

“To be determined. You better go,” said Mischa, having already said goodbye to his mother once. “Mum’s getting antsy.”

Sascha pulled a face. “She’s ridiculous. We have like two hours.”

“Then I expect to be regaled with airport tales for two hours,” said Mischa, grinning. “Be good, _liebling_.” 

“Only as good as you,” said Sascha.

“Guess you’re fucked. I love you.”

“I love you,” returned Sascha, and after one more massive hug and copious amounts of waving he and Irina were disappearing through the terminal doors. Mischa watched him go feeling as though he might pop like a needled balloon from everything he wasn't speaking aloud, as though he'd lost something essential like the ability to speak or breathe or blink.

At his throat Sascha's cross burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so did I mention that this was a slow burn?


	3. Chapter 3

Mischa and Alex didn’t do much without their counterparts and Alex fell asleep soon after they returned to the hotel room, lulled by the steady background noise of the television. Sascha and Irina were still waiting to board their flight and Sascha was fulfilling his promise of airport tales (bonus: everything else) over text. Mischa was frustratingly awake; the bed felt huge without Sascha taking up more than his fair share and he didn’t know what to do.

_(Sing me a lullaby, Sash.)_

_[What, you’re tired already?]_

_(It’s that I’m not tired.)_

_[Okay well i can’t sing to you over text]_

Pause.

_[Do you think mum would be weirded out if i called you]_

Mischa thought about it and he really thought that Irina wouldn’t bat an eye but they couldn’t speak truly on the phone with their parents so nearby so he decided against advising a phone call.

_(Honestly not at all because we’re so bizarrely close that she’s used to it by now but like I can’t really talk to you if you call you know)_

Pause. Then, to cover the multiple talking points from his previous text:

_(And dad’s asleep.)_

_[Of course he is. And you can totally talk to me, just like don’t mention that fact that you woke up pressing your massive hard on against my stomach]_

Mischa had to bite his fist to keep the snort that erupted from his throat from burgeoning into full-on hysterical laughter.

_(Or the fact that you had to go jack off last night after i gave you a back massage)_

_[OKAY but that was totally unrelated]_

Pause. Mischa could hear his brother’s voice, overflowing with chagrined indignation, melodic.

_[Or not at all unrelated]_

Pause, part two. Mischa was halfway to writing back when Sascha started typing again.

_[Just that on top of a bunch of other things]_

_(A bunch of other things?)_

_[Well, for real, it had been a while. And like, i get hard when the breeze blows the wrong way, so.]_

_(Fucking same.)_

_[But also...]_

_(I know.)_

_[you always know.]_

_(So do you)_

It was disgustingly easy to discuss this over text. Mischa thought about how Sascha had pulled him closer when he’d realized that Mischa was hard that morning, about how he’d matched their hips perfectly together. Around his neck Sascha’s cross chilled his skin. 

Like he’d read Mischa’s mind Sascha wrote, _[My cross looks good on you.]_

_(Yeah? Mine looks good on you.)_ Mischa wanted to say that it looked good in Sascha’s mouth but he was holding himself back with an army and plus he needed a deity on his side right now. 

[ _Will you wear it tomorrow?]_

_(Sash in all probability I’m not taking it off till it falls off on its own)_

_[Good. I wanna see it against your skin]_

_(Please advise)_ wrote Mischa, because he was pretty sure what Sascha was saying but he’d realized quite a while ago that it was best not to jump to conclusions. 

_[I mean i wanna see it on you. Not on you on a shirt you’re wearing]_

_(You tryna get me naked?)_ Mischa hit send and wished he could take it back but he was drunk on his win streak and the night and his brother’s boldness, which leeched through the phone, palpable in the black air.

_[how hard do i have to try, really? I mean it’s summer so you train in practically nothing, you never wear a shirt to bed, i know you’re getting off if the bathroom door is closed and you’ve been in there for a long time...]_

_(That’s voluntary. Like, without you asking.)_

_[who said I was asking?]_

_(Literally you)_

_[ah fuck]_

Mischa grinned. Then he lost his breath because:

_[for real though. I’m asking.]_

( _You want me to wear it without a shirt)_

_[yes]_

_[if that’s okay]_ Quickly.

_(It’s okay.)_

Pause.

_(You’re in luck, little brother, because not only will i be sleeping shirtless next to you tomorrow, but I will be hitting with you shirtless for the next week, if it’s hot in Marseilles)_

_[well thank fuck we have the nighttime. Hey Meesh]_

_(Yeah?)_

_[i wasn’t kidding when i said you’re the beautiful one.]_

Mischa felt like his mind was imploding. In every way imaginable he was soaring, tingling, all systems go, but there was a tiny voice marching like a stream of ants in the back of his consciousness and it was droning: 

_He’s sixteen he’s your brother he’s sixteen he’s your brother HE’S SIXTEEN HE’S YOUR BROTHER_

But Sascha, having been raised by older parents and a brother nearly ten years his senior, had always been wiser than his age, and he was not only Mischa’s blood. He was his other half and his best friend and his favorite person, the one who knew all about him and listened to everything, anything, whenever Mischa needed it. _Liebling._

_(I wasn’t kidding either)_

_[i didn’t think so. Hey we’re about to board]_

_(Let me know when you’re there. Hopefully I’ll be able to fucking sleep.)_

_[well I’ll be awake for at least another hour when we get there so I’ll stay up with ya if you can’t]_

_(I miss you)_

_[i miss you too. I hate this.]_

_(Same. Be safe.)_

_[i love you]_

_(I love_ you.)

And with all of these new thoughts collecting in his overloaded brain, Mischa sank back into his pillows and let his eyes drop closed and to his surprise before he knew it, the morning had arrived.

*

Sascha played at noon and won in straights; Mischa played at two and lost 7-5 7-6 (5) to the top seed, so no one - not even his inner perfectionist - could be upset with that. His mind was tired but his body felt fresh and he knew he’d be back on the top by his first match at the French, which was bound to be the following Monday or Tuesday. Irina had texted Alex while Mischa was playing and informed him that she’d been able to secure a wildcard in doubles for their sons and Mischa regaled in the good news when he met his father in the lounge after his press conference. 

Alex Sr. couldn’t have been prouder of Mischa and started gabbling away in Russian as they walked out together, arm around his son’s shoulder, and when he put his hand around the scruff of Mischa’s neck Mischa had to smile because he’d gotten that move, which he pulled so often on Sascha, from his father.

They always had been an affectionate family.

His phone had been buzzing since he’d retrieved it from the locker room; he looked at the screen and to his surprise it was Irina. He picked up. 

“ _Liebchen,_ ” said Irina. Her voice was overflowing with affection, pride. “You’ve done so well.”

“Thank you, mama,” said Mischa, glowing. “I felt really good out there.”

“As you should have. You were toe to toe with a top fifteen player. That’ll be you soon.” There was urgent noise in the background and Irina was laughing. “Hold on, Sash. Mischa, ask your dad if he wants us to pick you up at the airport?”

Dutifully, Mischa relayed the question. Alex checked in his wallet for the flight confirmation.

“Yeah. Tell her we land at seven their time.”

“Mum, dad says yeah, we’ll be there at seven. He’ll text you all the information with our gate and stuff,” said Mischa, per instruction.

“Okay. We’ll get you and then eat dinner. Sash plays again in half an hour so if he wins that his last qualifying match will be tomorrow morning.” Irina sounded distracted; the volume in the background was building. “Your brother is clamoring to talk to you, Meesh, here you go.”

“I made Mum call you because you weren’t answering me, you hoe,” said Sascha in German immediately, when he’d gotten hold of the phone. “How do you feel? Are you okay?”

“Sorry, I left my phone in my locker and Dad and I were talking,” laughed Mischa, delighted with Sascha’s urgency. “Yes, I’m okay. I’m pretty proud of myself, honestly.”

“I’m proud of you, too,” said Sascha. “We all are. I have to play again really soon but I wanted to talk to you before I went on court.”

Mischa felt warmth curling from his chest, reaching molten fingers to the outer edges of his body. “I’m glad you called. How do you feel, are you ready?” 

“So ready. I feel like I’m on crack.” His voice was a revving engine; he was still going a million miles an hour in German, and Mischa knew it was because Irina wasn’t fluent in the language. She and Alex were both one hundred percent Russian and they’d given their boys the gift of three languages by speaking Russian at home and encouraging them to practice German at school and with each other while meeting in the middle with English.

“Good. Hopefully it won’t be too long after you’re done that I land.” Mischa worried his thumb with his wolf teeth, replying in the same tongue; like his wife, Alex wasn't comfortable with quick German and his understanding of the language was moderate at best. “ _Rein, raus._ ” In, out. 

“ _Rein, raus_ ,” repeated Sascha, and Mischa could hear the smile in his words. “Oh, so yeah. I forgot to tell you last night. The beds are tiny.”

“How tiny?”

“Like, saying we’ll be sleeping on top of each other isn’t far from the truth. I feel like a giant.”

Thrill blossomed in Mischa’s core, half trepidation, half interest. “Well. Thank god this is my off week.”

“Lucky fuck.” Sascha made the words sound like a sweet coo. “To be determined, as you say. Get here, okay?”

“We’re on our way,” said Mischa. “Now quit thinking about me and focus on you.” 

“Like I could,” said Sascha, and Mischa felt that in his soul.

“Same. Hey Sash, send me that playlist you put on for me the other day, will you? I need something for the flight.”

“Yeah, give me a sec. Mmph.” Sascha’s teeth clicked over the thickness of his voice. “Sorry, Mum is force feeding me almond butter.”

“You need it, skeletor.”

“Fuck off. Okay, I sent it. I gotta go, I’m on in like twenty. Mum wants to talk to dad.”

“Yeah, sure. Good luck, okay? _Ich liebe dich.”_

_“Ya tebya lyublyu.”_

Mischa handed his phone to his father. Alex and Irina spoke about technicalities for a good five minutes but when they hung up and Mischa’s phone was returned to him Sascha’s playlist was there waiting for him. Sascha liked rap in both Russian and German and weird witchy electronic music and melodic trance and there was no rhyme or reason to his playlists; just moods, he called them. This one was titled simply “match” - no caps, no frills, straight to the point. Just like everything Sascha did, really.

When they climbed into the airport taxi Mischa put it on and went into his brother’s little world and it was like seeing his mind work. He had to wonder what else Sascha kept in his music library, what subtle information might be gleaned from paging through the playlists he wore out day after day.

*

Irina kept them updated on Sascha’s progress for as long as they could receive cell service; when they had to shut their phones off for the short flight, he had just fought back to claim the second set. When they landed Alex got the text first - he had won, a tiebreaker in the third.

“You think he’ll make main draw?” Alex asked Mischa, as they waited for their bags downstairs.

Mischa smiled. Normally he was the one asking questions but Alex understood that Mischa was the authority on the youngest Zverev: he spent the most time with him and he was often the one on the other side of the net when Sascha was practicing.

“I don’t know, dad,” he said frankly, fingering Sascha’s cross at his throat. “He’s playing crazy good. I think he can do a lot right now.”

“Me too. So no pressure at the French.” Alex winked at him, and Mischa laughed. “Really though. You’re both playing crazy good, as you say. I’m glad you’re getting a week to rest.”

“Me too. I need it to be fresh.” Mischa still had one earbud in and he was furiously texting Sash, who was updating him on their travel status to the airport, so he was only half present in reality. “There’s your bag.”

Sascha and Irina arrived synchronously with the arrival of their last item of luggage and as soon as Mischa received the text that they’d parked outside the arrival gate his heart, which had picked up speed when the plane had touched down in France, started drumming like rabbits’ feet. It was for Sascha and he knew he was being ridiculous but he couldn’t get _I want to see it on your skin_ to quite disappear from his mind. When he and Alex walked outside they found Sascha on his way in to retrieve them and when he saw Mischa the struggle to keep from tackling him in front of their father flashed as clearly as a shaft of sun across his beautiful face.

Mischa took care of it for him, dropped his bag and enfolded Sascha in his arms, kissed the side of his head. “Look at you, champ.”

“Look at YOU, ATP tour finalist,” returned Sascha, grinning. Mischa could feel his heart jackhammering in his chest, his breath coming quickly, and when he pulled back they exchanged a look laden with meaning. Sascha was aware of his irregular heartbeat.

Sascha hugged their father and grabbed Mischa’s bag before leading them to Irina, who was leaning against the slick platinum Audi they’d rented for the week with a gigantic grin on her face. She came to embrace Alex and Mischa in a massive group hug and kissed Mischa on his cheek.

“You deserve this off week, Meesh,” she said, and he beamed.

“I’m ready. I’m gonna be by the pool so much,” said Mischa, luxuriant as he tossed his racquet bag in the backseat. “We have one, right?”

“Yes. It’s tiny,” said Irina, laughing at Sascha’s face. “Just like the beds.” 

“So I’ve heard,” said Mischa, raising his eyebrows at his brother. “Are they soft at least?”

“They are, actually, and the pool is great. We went for a little bit while we were waiting for you guys,” said Irina. “We can go now, or we could get food.”

“Food,” said Sascha, as they piled in the car. “Pool later. Or hot tub. I need a muscle relaxer.”

“Aww, poor baby, you stiff already?” Mischa’s eyes were wicked.

“You aren’t, after the last two weeks?” Sascha returned deviance with innocence, but Mischa could tell that he knew exactly what was being said.

“Nah. Ask me again later, maybe it hasn’t set in yet,” said Mischa, and that shut Sascha right up; his smile was incandescent. “It’s nice, though? The hot tub?”

“Very. The whole place is nice. Just, small.” Irina shrugged. “We’ll make do.”

“Yeah? Do they have good coffee for you, Sash?”

“It’s acceptable,” said Sascha, “but there’s a cafe next door that smells bomb that I wanna try tomorrow.”

“We’ll go,” said Irina. “Meesh, will you warm him up in the morning? We have a court at 8:30.”

“You got it, Ma,” said Mischa, sucking his teeth against the urge to grin for her word choice, and Sascha without looking over smacked him lightly on the outer thigh. When Mischa turned to look at him Sascha was glittering from the eyes, all radiance and buzz in the twilight air.

They went to a classy tavern for food and Mischa, knowing that he had nothing to lose by imbibing a bit this week, ordered whiskey. He drank his first before any food touched his stomach and he tried not to let on that the ethanol was swarming his neurons, his bloodstream, but the urge to drape himself all over Sascha intensified tenfold and he had to stop himself from doing anything other than paste their thighs together under the table. By the time they left he was smudged out at the edges and grinning madly at everything and Sascha was watching him like he was the most fascinating creature in existence.

He didn’t think about the boundaries that alcohol might erase.

When they got to the room Mischa took one look at the beds and laughed out loud. 

“God AND Jesus.”

“Amen hallelujah,” said Sascha, both hands squeezing Mischa’s shoulders as he passed him to get to his suitcase. “Next week in Paris will make up for it, right, Dad?”

“I promise,” said Alex, surveying the situation with bridged eyebrows. “We’re all too tall for this.”

“For real,” said Sascha. “But for now I’m going to forget about that and go to the hot tub. Come on, Meesh.”

“Hang on, i gotta get my stuff,” said Mischa, throwing his bag on their teeny bed. To Irina and Alex he said, “Are you guys coming?”

They did come, for a little while. Then Irina expressed a wish to get dessert and Alex agreed to go with her. They left their sons to their own devices in the steaming water and after that there was nothing but them and the stars; the pool was deserted. Mischa reflected briefly upon the fact that if this thing with him and Sascha were to play out the way he suspected it might, they had the perfect parents for the situation. Alex and Irina would have trusted Mischa with Sascha’s life and they left them alone often, not only to spend time on their own together but because they knew how close their sons were, how Mischa adored Sascha and gave him the world. 

“Are you drunk?” Sascha was whispering, breath rising with the hot air.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Mischa easily, stretching his arms back over the concrete. “But I wouldn’t call myself sober, either.”

“I want to drink with you,” said Sascha, pouting in jest, gorgeous with his curls damp and everywhere, bright-eyed.

“I gave you a sip,” said Mischa, toeing him under the water.

“I want to get drunk with you,” amended Sascha. “I wanna feel what you’re feeling right now.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Mischa was not cautious right now and he wanted to see what response that might elicit from Sascha, who under the influence of no substance was already so brazen.

“Depends how you look at it."

“Uh huh. And how do you look at it, baby brother?” Mischa tipped his head up, looked around. There was no one, only the heat and the silence, that voyeuristic indigo sky. When he oriented himself again he found Sascha watching him.

“I look at it like you being as courageous as you were when we were texting last night. I’ve never felt like there was so much you weren’t saying to me.” 

“Some things I don’t have to say,” said Mischa fairly. “Some things you already know.”

“I do know,” said Sascha quietly.

“I’m aware.” Mischa sat up, pushed off from the side of the hot tub, stopped when he was hovering just in front of Sascha, who watched him with huge eyes and shaky breath. “You wanted to see your cross on me. Here it is.”

He raised himself up, presented the bare top half of his chest for Sascha’s appraisal, and Sascha reached out to touch him immediately. His hand closed over the ornament, squeezed, then he let it drop and traced his fingers around the outline, the chain, an excuse to discover Mischa’s skin. Mischa wasn’t clearheaded enough to be ashamed of how instantly aroused he was. He closed his eyes briefly, tried to steady himself, but Sascha was so close and their knees were knocking together and his heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to cease or kick into overdrive. Around them the water seethed, hissing, burning.

“Much better,” breathed Sascha, mouth open, eyes black.

“Jesus Christ, Sascha.”

“What,” said Sascha, but he was doing the thing, asking a question without including the correct punctuation. When the answer was understood it couldn’t be a real query. 

Mischa floated closer, almost between Sascha’s legs, steeled himself. He sighed low because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, because he didn’t know what the proper reaction was. Sascha’s hand remained at his throat, tenderly fingering his skin, and Mischa felt like he was hovering in a liminal plane of existence: somewhere between what was and what should and shouldn’t be. 

“I’m not actually upset about the bed situation, you know,” he said. “Like, at all.” 

Sascha shook his head. He was watching Mischa’s mouth. “Neither am I. I just wanted to let you know what you were in for. And act properly dismayed in front of Mom and dad.” 

“Eh. I’m not convinced.” Mischa was smirking.

“Well, you can help me pile it on later,” said Sascha. “Did you like my music?”

“I did. You listen to weird shit.”

“I listen to things that make me feel,” corrected Sascha. “And things that explain how I feel, and things that will change my mindset to what I want.”

“Yeah? What else?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Music that reminds me of a time or a place or a person. I have a whole playlist going for this summer already.” Sascha’s eyes were holographs, mesmerizing. “When I had my first kiss I made a playlist about that, but then I decided I didn’t really want to relive it, so I deleted it.”

Mischa laughed. “I remember that. You were like twelve and you were so excited, until you were like, ‘so this girl won’t stop calling me...’. And that was that.”

“Hah.” Sascha pushed his free hand back through his hair, pearled with droplets of crystal water. “She was a bad kisser anyway.”

“Oh yeah, you’re a connoisseur, then?” 

“I’ve kissed a few people in my day,” said Sascha defensively, but Mischa just laughed at him; his indignation was adorable. Sascha splashed him and Mischa withdrew, palms up, still smiling.

“A few people, huh,” he said.

“Three, to be exact,” said Sascha. “And you, what about you? You’re so experienced?”

“Well, I’m no heathen, but I’m not innocent,” said Mischa, grinning. “I’ve got some time on you, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, Methuselah. You act like you’re so much older than me,” said Sascha, making a face.

“Sash,” said Mischa, serious now. “Have I ever once treated you like you were a child?” 

“Never,” said Sascha immediately. “You make me feel like I’m you’re equal.” 

“Because you are. You know I love to rag on you, but you’re my best friend. You’re not a little kid anymore.” Mischa shrugged. “You’re mine, Sash. You’ve always been mine.”

The alcohol had made his words flow thoughtlessly and it wasn’t like he’d said anything overboard but with all the tension scraping between them lately and how hot-close they were beneath the water they both paused to ponder the possible deeper meaning lurking below the surface of his words.

“Mischa,” said Sascha, soft. “You have no idea how true that is.” 

This time it was he who invaded the small distance that had opened up between them. As naturally as he had when they were children he curled his mile-long legs around Mischa’s hips and settled against him, forearms resting on his blade-sharp shoulders, looking down into Mischa’s face, upon which his entire heart was scrawled. As he had done so innocently in the past, Sascha put his forehead against Mischa’s, and the elder raced his fingers tentatively up Sascha’s spine until his inner elbows were hooked under Sascha’s armpits, close, close, close. They were so near to one another that Mischa could taste Sascha’s breath, and he was sure that the flavor of ethanol from his own mouth was sharp in his brother’s nose. As they settled into each other, creating electrical currents like a key turning in an ignition, Mischa realized that Sascha was hard. He felt his stomach flood with liquid lava.

“Good _evening_ ,” he said hoarsely, rogue, echoing Sascha’s tease from the previous morning.

“Oh fuck off,” said Sascha, his face blooming the shade of a fresh blood rose, and he squeezed his thighs around Mischa’s hips before pushing away in embarrassment.

“I’m kidding, Sash,” said Mischa, reaching for him, pulling him back. In helpless laughter they grappled for a second before Sascha relented and there was an incredible earthquakey pause in which Mischa thought they might actually fucking kiss but then Sascha’s phone was ringing and Sascha was groaning and lifting himself up to grab the offending device off its resting place on a nearby chair. Mischa had given up all pretense of looking away from him in delicate moments and made no secret of his attention when Sascha settled on the side of the hot tub to answer the call, hand automatically going to his crotch to push down on his obvious hard-on. Mischa wondered if Sascha knew that he was hard, too.

“Hey,” said Sascha into the phone, as calm as if he was discussing tennis and not absently playing with the erection that Mischa had given him. “Yeah, we’re still at the hot tub.” Pause. “No, not yet, at least I’m not. Are you a prune, Meesh?”

“God, maybe,” said Mischa, and his voice was strong and mildly hysterical because the whole situation was damned to hell and he didn’t fucking care about it. Sascha was hard for him and thirty seconds ago they’d been THIS CLOSE to kissing and he wanted it, wanted it so badly he thought he might go momentarily sightless for lust. This was his brother; this was Sascha. This was not supposed to happen. 

Sascha was laughing at him. “He says maybe.” Pause. “Uh, yeah, I want creme brûlée. Meesh, what do you want for dessert?”

“Oooh, do they have eclairs?” Mischa’s attention was diverted momentarily. “Because yes.”

Sascha relayed the message. “He wants chocolate,” he said, without asking, because he knew. “When should we come up?”

Mischa pulled himself up out of the protection of the hot tub, perched on the ledge, looked over and saw him looking. Their eyes locked and Mischa thought if they kept creating disruptive currents in the air like this it might actually strike the city down, lightning and flame sparking destruction between them.

“We can come over if you want,” Sascha was saying into the phone. “We just have to like, put on dry clothes. Meesh, is that okay? Mum is obsessed with this place and wants us to see it. It’s what, a few blocks away?” Like it was nothing he reached over and started banging his fist playfully on Mischa’s thigh, opening his palm to rest on his knee, touching for the sake of touching. It was unbearable.

“Yes,” said Mischa emphatically, because he needed fresh air and water and to walk this off so his body would settle.

“We’ll be there in ten or so,” said Sascha, and after saying his goodbyes he hung up, turned to Mischa again. The air was thick and Mischa realized he was clenching his teeth. 

“Dessert hour,” he said, and Sascha slid his wandering hand up to fist in Mischa’s hair, dripping at the ends. Mischa wanted to touch him everywhere.

“Maybe it’ll sober you up,” said Sascha, poking him verbally.

“Is that what you want?”

“Not at all. I’d stay here all night; I love you like this. But I need you to be fresh in the morning so you can properly prepare me to kick ass.” Sascha kneaded the scruff of Mischa’s neck and bit his lip for the way Mischa rumbled for him.

“You love me like what?”

Sascha considered. “Bold.” 

“I learn from the best,” said Mischa, and he stood up, reached down to drag Sascha up with him. “And if you think I won’t be ready for the morning, you seriously underestimate my liver.” 

*

For time’s sake they managed to switch into dry clothes without spending an hour ogling each other and when they arrived at the little bakery their parents had unearthed Mischa was seeing the world clearly again. The alcohol had worn off and subsequently been replaced by a dull exhaustion; he ate his eclair half-leaning on Sascha, who was only too happy to be used as a pillow.

Before they went to bed Sascha forced him to drink water and shoved Ibuprofen down his throat, grinning when Mischa protested that he felt fine, just tired.

“Shut up and let me take care of you.”

“Fine.” Mischa wanted to fall into him. “Can we go to sleep yet?”

“Yes. Come on.” Sascha pulled him down off the sink, pressed his mouth lightly into Mischa’s neck with one eye on the cracked bathroom door. It was too light now, too harsh, and he felt exposed from the inside out. “Mischa...” 

Sascha’s tone roused him. “Yes. What.” He stepped back, looked into Sascha’s eyes, and found a question there: _was the hot tub okay._ “Sash. Yes. Absolutely.”

Sascha’s fairy-boned shoulders relaxed visibly; he lowered his voice. “You weren’t just drunk.” 

“Well, this was, you know,” said Mischa, and he had to check himself before he said something of horrifying incrimination like _I’ve been thinking about this since you were barely fifteen_. “the first time I haven’t been anything but sober.”

“I know,” said Sascha, quickly. “I just wanted to make sure it was okay.”

“Sash. It’s more than okay.”

He tipped his brother’s chin up and looked him in the eye and there again was that bone-melting urge to kiss him on his open mouth. Mischa wondered how long they could hold out at this rate.

“Okay,” said Sascha again. “Because it’s, you know. Okay with me too.”

Mischa swallowed and touched the incredible symmetry of his brother’s jawline and nodded. This was as close as they’d ever been to discussing the fact that something not at all brotherly was happening between them and now that Mischa had Sascha’s wayward permission he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay away. He was full of want and it was clear that Sascha was, too.

*

Once they settled in bed it became apparent that the mattress frame had actually been designed to provide comfort solely to people 5’5 and slender or less. After a moment of restless shifting there was a small silence and then Alex Sr muttered out loud, “jesus god,” and the entire Zverev family burst into hysterical laughter. Evidently the stress of travel was catching up with them at last and suddenly Mischa longed for the week after the French open. As well as he was playing he thought it unlikely that he’d make it to the second week of the tournament and then he would have two blessed weeks at home, and at least one of those would be with Sascha.

It was probably bad timing that whatever it was that was happening between them was coming to an apparent head right before Mischa’s favorite slam of the year but he was Paris bound and down. He had more energy than he knew what to do with, and he understood that his body wanted him to give it to Sascha; the excess energy production was entirely, entirely sexual. Even now, as they lay crammed together attempting to command themselves to sleep, he could feel Sascha’s skin singing to him. 

When they woke up it was at 7:30 to shy early morning light and Irina was shaking them gently, Rachmaninoff playing from her phone speaker in the background, Mischa’s thigh curled heavily around Sascha’s hips. Mischa stretched from toe to neck while still lying half on top of his brother and all he could do was smile. He had nothing to do all week but eat and swim; casually hit and sit on the sidelines as a cheerleader. It was going to be a good day. 

Their level of play once they hit the practice courts was, once again, unprecedented. Sascha was barely missing and Mischa felt like he’d never tire. As they toweled off for a quick intermission he said smugly,

“Told you I’d be fine.” 

“You’re fine because I gave you ibuprofen,” retorted Sascha, but his voice was lighthearted. “I feel good. Really good.”

“Well then, let’s get you into the main draw,” said Irina, overhearing. “Play some tiebreaks and we’ll be done.”

They played three; Mischa won one and Sascha won two, which was solid for his confidence. They bumped fists and hugged when they were finished and Sascha out of respect for his brother did little celebrating but Mischa could feel the adrenaline pouring like an open dam through Sascha’s veins. He was in full-blown competition mode.

It was 9:45. His match was at eleven. If he won, he played main draw at the same time the next day.

At 10:30, Alex and Irina went to situate themselves in Sascha’s box; upon request, Mischa stayed below with his brother and as was their custom they shadowboxed until Sascha, pent-up, switched to pacing with his earbuds in. When he started his playlist he closed his eyes briefly, cracked his neck; his pupils when he revealed them again were struck through with dark intensity. 

Mischa had not seen Sascha this focused in ages. He leaned against the wall and watched him pacing like a cheetah, visibly ready to sprint, emanating swagger. Live wire, caged animal, all heat. Before he walked on Sascha prowled to him and knocked his forehead against Mischa’s own.

Mischa chanted, _davai davai davai_ and Sascha growled _AUF geh’ts_ and then he removed his headphones and transferred them to Mischa’s ears and with a full rich melody in his brain Mischa told him to go. It wasn’t until he was walking back upstairs to meet his parents that he realized that in order to be listening to Sascha’s music he had to have Sascha’s phone, and indeed, it was tucked into the pocket of his shorts. Sascha had slipped it there when he’d been distracted watching him turn to walk on court.

Possession of Sascha’s phone felt like possession of the title to a goldmine. Sascha himself had told Mischa that he used music to help him more deeply understand the things that he felt, to feel closer to the people he cared about, to remember a favorite occurrence. Mischa had no doubt that Sascha had reserved something especially for them; for this.

The thought both thrilled and intimidated him; Sascha was trusting him with the thing that was most likely to unveil his heart. They’d never really hidden anything from each other but Sascha had to know that Mischa would be curious about his music library, the language of his innermost being that he wasn’t capable of translating to human speech, and still he had given him that choice. To explore or not to explore.

All of this Mack-trucked Mischa within the fifteen seconds that it took him to travel from player’s lounge to box and by the time he sat down he felt mildly unstable.

*

In the end, after Sascha had safely secured the first set 6-4, Mischa did look.

Briefly. Just to ease his intermittently racing heart. But he looked.

He knew a thing or two about music but Sascha, who had thousands and thousands of songs categorized into dozens of playlists, possessed a library that was on another level. He named his playlists things like _fall_ , _halloween_ ; named them things like _prague_ , _practice._ These were sufficiently self explanatory but other titles proved more elusive: _red hat, closed door, unaware, want._ He didn’t capitalize and never used more than two words for a title. His two most recently updated playlists were _match_ and _sacrilege_.

At once, Mischa became wholly aware of Sascha’s cross roped around his throat; his hand went there automatically to raise it to his mouth and he sucked it in, bit the long end. Wondering, wondering, wondering. When he looked up he found Sascha observing him from where he sat on the sidelines and his expression was guarded but he was smirking. Mischa tilted his head, raised one eyebrow, smirked back with the cross still bitten between his teeth.

The match was close and on paper Sascha shouldn’t have been winning but he was. He got broken early in the second but came charging back immediately on his opponent’s service game, roaring, “LET’S GO,” at his box, and they hollered back, volume up, all in. It was 3-3 and he was fired up and he held his next service game at love. When he sealed the game he clenched his fist and looked back at his family and he was looking at Mischa saying something that they couldn’t hear over the applause.

“What’s he saying?” Irina asked Mischa, because she knew that if anyone knew Sascha it was him.

It clicked like a lock in Mischa’s head.

“ _Rein, raus,_ ” he repeated, softly. “He’s saying _rein, raus.”_

Get in. Win. Get out.

At 5-4, Sascha went up 30-40 on his opponent’s serve and when he got a short ball he didn’t hesitate, walloped it down the line for a winner and just like that he’d made main draw.

Mischa was yelling senselessly; he felt like he’d explode from pride, volcanic. Sascha was playing better and better every day and he was obviously feeling it. When he was able to hit with Mischa on a regular basis he was bolstered and it showed. Mischa could see this realization brewing between his parents and he knew it was only a matter of time before they understood that the boys were best kept together: Sascha was close to being ready to go big league, full time. A year wasn’t such a long time, not when they were this young with the world at their feet.

“I’m going down,” Mischa said immediately, as Sascha started zipping up his bag. “I wanna be there when he gets to the locker room.” 

“Bring him up so he can shower at the hotel,” said Alex, beaming. “We’ll take him for coffee if he wants.”

So Mischa sprinted down the side of the stadium and stood just inside the long hallway leading out to the court. Sascha’s opponent was long gone and there was a mill of players around him but he was shining for Sascha and Sascha alone and when his brother emerged from the court he was leaning on the wall, grinning, waiting.

“Hi, champ,” he said, and Sascha dropped his bag and ran to him, let himself be enfolded, all sweat and adrenaline, hyped. It felt like fireworks and that was only reasonable because Mischa was on fire for him.

“Meesh,” Sascha breathed, “i did it.”

“You were stunning, Sash,” said Mischa, and he tried to keep his mouth from Sascha’s skin but failed. Sascha tasted like salt and sharpness and Mischa could feel how damp he was and he was an addict. “Dad said he’ll buy you coffee. We’re going to the hotel for you to shower. Okay?” 

“Yes, fuck yes, let’s go,” said Sascha, and his arm fell around Mischa’s shoulders, squeezed as they walked together out into the daylight, where Irina and Alex were waiting. In the car on the way back to their temporary home Mischa fought the urge to shove his nose into Sascha’s armpit and pull a massive obscene whiff of his pheromones, so strong in the confines of the little car.

When they got to the room Sascha stripped his shirt like it was the most natural thing (because it was and Mischa was sick, sick, sick), all salt-crust skin and pretty bones, and Mischa had to go sit on the balcony to keep himself from wandering into the bathroom while Sash was in the shower. Outside the air was thick with humidity, coating the city with jungle heat, and Mischa was slick with a thin layer of perspiration by the time Alex and Sascha came out onto the balcony to get him.

To obtain Sascha’s famous coffee they went to the same bakery that had provided them dessert the previous evening and commandeered a nook in the back corner to relax. On the walk over it had started to rain and Irina had some details to work out with the representative at Roland Garros so she went into business mode while the three Zverev men played bullshit with the faded deck of cards Alex kept perpetually on his person. It all felt laughably normal until Sascha and Mischa made any sort of eye contact and there in the air that new thrill would be.

It wasn’t until they were walking down the street in rows of two in the spitting rain, clad in their brightly colored rain jackets, that Sascha managed to ask him.

“You didn’t find anything incriminating on my phone, did you?”

“Nah. And believe me, I looked.” Mischa winked. “But I think I’d have a different opinion if I spoke music the way you do.”

“I think you might,” said Sascha, mildly. “Although I guess it’s pretty hard to pay attention to the nuances of a bunch of weirdly titled playlists when you’re focused on being my biggest cheerleader.” 

“Yeah, my priorities were on point. Although it was a fight there for a minute,” said Mischa. “Seriously, Sash. You look good as fuck out there. And coming back from that break in the second set? I’d have lost it.” 

“Maybe.” Sascha was grinning. “I learn from your negatives, too.”

“Fuck off.” Fondly.

“You.” Sascha swiped his hand over his face, hair dripping at the edges, rain in his multihued eyes. “What do you think our condo in Paris will be like?”

“I don’t know, but I hope it’s near a bakery so I can get my eclairs,” said Mischa. He was watching Alex and Irina in front of them, cautious of their conversation in case they could somehow hear over the rain pattering at their hoods, and on a selfish impulse he wanted Sascha alone. “Do you want to go somewhere?” 

“Like, just us?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.” Sascha’s response was emphatic. “Mum, Dad. What are we doing?”

“We were thinking of heading back to the hotel,” said Alex, turning to face them. “The rain is too much. What are you guys wanting to do?”

“Explore,” said Mischa, and Sascha nodded zealously. “If you guys don’t want to come we can meet up for dinner?”

“Yes, sure,” said Irina. “We’ll probably go to the gym and the pool, so if you guys want to be back by six thirty or seven? Is that too late for you to eat, Sash?”

 

“No, it’s good. We can snack if we get hungry, we’ll be okay,” said Sascha, so they said their see-you-laters and parted ways, on the lookout for bookstores and museums, because for all their athleticism the Zverev boys held deep reverence for the arts. Eventually they stumbled across a beautiful stone building covered in moss and vine, turrets arching sharply to the sky like a castle, and they knew enough French to understand from the sign that they had stumbled across a library.

And what a library it was. Curving staircases, skylit alcoves, carved wooden tables situated by floor-to-ceiling windows. Mischa and Sascha left their jackets on hooks by the door and embarked on a joyous hunt, at last finding the expansive section of foreign-language books. Sascha, like ninety percent of the rest of the world, was currently obsessed with Harry Potter and found a copy of the fourth book in German; Mischa took a crime thriller in English, and they went to search for a reading nook. On the deserted third floor they curled into a cushioned window alcove and settled in with their backs against the rain-spattered pane. The faint tapping was a relaxing lull and with Sascha warm against him Mischa fell entranced into the pages of his book. 

Without Alex and Irina there it was easy; they didn’t have to talk to know that things were changing between them, and here it was okay. They were pressed close and eventually they stretched out parallel to each other, backs against opposite walls, Mischa’s left leg thrust between Sascha’s own. For hours they read in isolated silence, saw two or three others lurking in the stacks, but soon enough each person found what they needed and disappeared to their own little alcoves. It felt like this was their world. Finally Mischa with his heart picking up speed shut his book, stood up, and re-situated himself beside Sascha on the opposite wall, bumping his shoulder deliberately as he did. Sascha’s smile as he looked up was massive. 

In Russian Mischa said with an answering grin, “you look happy.”

“Yeah, wonder why.” In the same tongue.

“Beats me.” Mischa shrugged, but his eyes preached omniscience. “How’s the wizard boy?”

“Fucking shit up as always,” said Sascha. “Have you solved your crime yet?”

“Nearly. We’ve been reading for ages.” Mischa checked his watch. “It’s five thirty. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Never. I want to stay here. I like it when it’s just us.” Sascha dropped his head to Mischa’s shoulder, briefly.

“Me too.” Mischa knocked his knee into Sascha’s own. “In Paris we can retire to our room whenever we want.”

“Our room?” Sascha’s eyes sparkled.

“Yeah, did you think we were splitting up?” Mischa grinned. “Two bedroom condos are cheaper. We’ll be fine in a king or two fulls.”

“Mmmm.” Sascha blew out a breath. “It’ll be so nice to have a week where I can sleep in boxers. I feel like I have to wear a suit of armor to bed in front of Mum.” 

A little surprised chuckle ripped from Mischa’s throat. “Actually, same. She woke us up while I was on top of you this morning and I almost fucking died.” 

“She probably thought we were cute as hell,” said Sascha, smirking. “Little does she know.”

“Uh huh. Fuck.” Mischa thought about it before he spoke again, but he dared. “We’ll have our own room, Sash. With a door that locks.”

He scrunched his fingers possessively around the scruff of Sascha’s neck. Sascha hissed.

“Fuck, Mischa.”

“Yeah.” Mischa felt his blood go hot for the slash of rust in Sascha’s voice.

“I’ve never been this perpetually horny in my entire life,” said Sascha, careful, earnest. He kept his eyes down. “Like, this is killing me.” 

“Me too,” said Mischa, squeezing the nape of Sascha’s neck, threading his fingers through the little ringlet curls, wild from the humid air. “Last night in the hot tub. Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.” Sascha was picking viciously at the undersides of his nails, something he did when he was suffering the effects of moderate anxiety. “When you came over to me talking about _you wanted to see your cross_...” 

He trailed off, shaking his head, rueful laugh bubbling in his throat, and Mischa removed his hand from Sascha’s neck and clenched it around his thigh. They made searing, searing eye contact.

“You liked that?” Mischa was deadpan. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Asshole,” said Sascha, and he blurted, “you were hard, too.”

Mischa felt his eyebrows rise, completely involuntarily, to his hairline. He was called out.

“I was,” he said, and he tapped his fingers on Sascha’s knee. “I was that entire time.” 

“Yeah. Me too.” Sascha flipped his hair out of his eyes; Mischa could feel him trembling. “Mum called at a really bad time.”

“Seriously. I was trying to seduce you,” said Mischa, teasing gently to lighten the mood, and Sascha smiled but then he put his big hand over Mischa’s where it was perched on his knee.

For a beat they stayed as they were, paralyzed. Then slowly, slowly, Mischa flipped his hand and in sweet clumsy motions they started braiding and unbraiding their fingers, stroking, playing. The gesture was as intimate as if they were lying twined together in bed and Mischa couldn’t breathe.

“Sascha,” he said, and with his free hand Sascha brushed his thumb over Mischa’s mouth.

“I know.” 

They were so, so fucked. 

*

At three sixteen a.m. Mischa woke up with a void beside him and when he stretched his hand out he came up empty; Sascha wasn’t there. He sat up, looked to his other side, saw Irina and Alex buried deeply under their blankets. The curtains were shut and the balcony light was off but the bathroom door was closed. Mischa was too sleep-shocked to have his wits about him and without an ounce of trepidation he got up and went after the thing that he wanted. 

He opened the door to darkness but his eyes were adjusted and there was Sascha fucking his hand over the toilet again, his long alabaster back shaking and his free palm splayed desperately over the sink, supporting his weight. When Mischa shut the door Sascha didn’t pause at all but he looked up.

“You didn’t lock the door,” whispered Mischa, already half-hard, watching the way Sascha’s wrist moved.

“You better lock it behind you, then,” hissed Sascha, pupils blown out from lust, and Mischa’s stomach dropped. He turned the bolt and leaned back against the door for a second but his body was screaming for gratification and before his brain could catch up with his intention he was crossing the room to crowd the toilet.

“Move over,” he commanded, and Sascha obliged. Mischa reached down and withdrew his cock from the flap of his boxers and then he was thigh to thigh forearm to forearm with Sascha while they jerked off over the same toilet. Sascha’s breath was hot and hard and the muscles in his thigh were twitching and Mischa was going to last two seconds. If he moved an inch he would have been able to touch Sascha’s hand, his cock, feel the slick precum weeping through his long slender fingers, the pulse of his skin as he got closer and closer. He turned his dark head and found Sascha looking intrusively into his eyes. Mischa let his gaze drop to Sascha’s bite-swollen mouth and licked his lower lip slow and deliberate and then Sascha groaned under his breath, “Jesus fuck,” and he was coming violently, telltale splash of water beneath them, all unsteady breath and wobbly legs.

Mischa was appalled at how close he was already, how fucked his stamina was, but Sascha was glowing and so goddamned hot and he couldn’t stop looking at his cock, purple and thick and swollen, leaking the last pearldrops of cum from the slit. He was thinking about Sascha pressing their hips together in the hot tub, how they’d held hands in the library, how they woke up wrapped around each other warm and unbearably hard every day. How they were _masturbating together_. When Sascha with his voice gravel-rough and his fat lips parted for lust, eyes locked to where Mischa was frantically working his cock, whispered, “god damn, Mischa, yes,” he clenched his teeth and his toes and exploded all over himself. He’d never had such a forceful orgasm in all his life.

They stood there sticky and salt-sweaty, catching their breath, speechless. Mischa’s blood was tingling and yodeling and Sascha, still dripping, leaned down and brushed their foreheads together. With his clean hand Mischa dragged his fist through Sascha’s hair; swore out loud. There was no coming back from this one; progression seemed absolute, and Mischa was ready.

As quietly as they could they cleaned up, sharing the sink and passing tissue silently, and when they were fresh and dry Sascha put his big hands on his hips and said almost jauntily, “how the fuck am I supposed to sleep now?” 

Mischa had to cut off his own laughter by biting the inside of his cheek; he, too felt like he’d been given a shot of adrenaline. This was not how orgasms were supposed to work.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “I’m afraid if we stay in here they’ll wake up and come looking for us.”

“This is why we need our own room,” said Sascha, rolling his eyes. “We could go on the balcony.”

“True. When is your match tomorrow?”

“I think three?” Sascha shrugged. “They changed it. Tournament director sent out a mass email saying to check in the morning because the rain kind of fucked the schedule.” 

“Oh word, didn’t think about that.” Mischa stretched, shook his head. “Either way. You should probably TRY to sleep. If you’re exhausted tomorrow it’ll be the worst.” 

“I’m young. I got this. There’s caffeine pills.” Sascha winked. “Besides, it was worth it.” 

“Yeah,” breathed Mischa, and his veins felt live. “Come on. We can reassess the balcony situation if we can’t sleep.”

“Ugh, fine, Dad,” Sascha ribbed, and Mischa smacked him, laughing as quietly as he could.

“Hey. You need me to be your voice of reason sometimes.”

“Neither of us has a voice of reason right now,” said Sascha calmly, and Mischa could concede that this was only fair. 

When they climbed back in bed they lay on their sides to face each other, covered up from the waist down, bright eyed and thrumming. Alex and Irina hadn’t moved; the cosmos hadn’t burst into flames from their iniquities. Mischa reached between them to touch his cross on Sascha’s skin and thought, _sacrilege._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was bound to happen eventually, right? :D Also, no idea if Irina and Alex are actually fluent in German but for the sake of Sash and Meesh being allowed to communicate a little more freely here we'll say they're not. Yay.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your lovely feedback <3 I'm LIVING for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go to your confessor; open your heart to him; display to him all the recesses of your soul..." - St. Francis de Sales
> 
> "Secrecy sets barriers between men, but at the same time offers the seductive temptation to break through the barriers by gossip or confession." - Georg Simmel

Sascha had been right; his match was set for three, and nothing in the schedule had changed so much that it affected him. He had drawn the number six seed and he had nothing to lose and it was a BATTLE. He lost in two extremely tight sets, so close they hinged on two or three points, and when he came off court he was as cheerful as he could be, happy with his efforts but annoyed that he hadn’t been able to capitalize on his chances.

“Match toughness,” said Irina consolingly, ruffling her youngest son’s tousled curls. “It’ll come.”

It would. Sascha knew that. But he was a nineties child and his generation’s biggest vice was their need for instant gratification.

Afterward, pent up, Mischa went to the hotel gym to lift with Alex overseeing. Sascha and Irina came to provide witty commentary, sitting by the window playing gin rummy, Sascha’s music set to low on his iPhone. It was a pleasant little atmosphere and Mischa felt strong, bolstered by Sascha’s covert watchfulness.

For two more long, wet, thunderstorm-spattered days they stayed in Marseilles. Irina had located indoor courts nearby and on both mornings Sascha and Mischa woke around ten, hit for an hour or two, spent some time with weights and drills. They were ready and adrenalized even though carnal tensions were high; every time Sascha touched him whether innocuous or not Mischa felt ready to dissolve to the floor for want. Maybe the lack of fruition was good for them because they were continuing to peak and it was easy enough to take their frustrations out on a tennis ball. Where they were reserved in life off the court, they unleashed without hesitation when they were on, rabid dogs let out of cages, salivating for purchase. Hungering. 

Nights were hot, close, damp. Mischa both lusted for and withdrew from the idea of being so close to Sascha in bed; his mind was rogue and it was good at convincing him that their parents might awaken at any second. For the time being they were contenting themselves with furtive finger-brushes and brotherly affection; they were fortunate that they had established a precedent of uncommon closeness nearly from the beginning and their parents didn’t blink at them for hugs and arms draped over shoulders and scruff-of-neck squeezes. He wasn’t sure how they would progress outside of their parents’ lax supervision but he wanted to know that he had the option to do anything at all about it because Sascha was looking at him like he was the first thing he’d ever seen after being blind his whole life.

When Sascha was six years old, he’d made an awkward leap from the highest of heights on a playground swing, and when he’d landed on his twisted ankle he’d wailed not for Irina, but Mischa. Mischa had been at tennis practice but when Alex had gotten the call from his wife he’d picked him up early and they’d driven to the urgent care as fast as they dared. When they’d arrived Irina and Sascha had been on the verge of being taken back to a room but Mischa had sprinted through the waiting area and allowed Sascha, already lanky and coltlike at six, to leap into his arms. He could still remember the way Sascha’s tears dripped warmly down his skin, the fierceness with which Sascha had clutched him, and he’d spent the whole visit trying to make Sash laugh. The expression of tearful despair on his little brother’s face had nearly rent Mischa to shreds.

In the end he’d succeeded with his mission of bringing joy back to that face. By the time they were finished Sascha had a securely wrapped ankle and a grin on his face that unfurled like a flag. They’d gone for ice cream and Mischa had read Sascha to sleep that night, kissing his sweaty little forehead when he finally dozed, the apple of his eye. Sascha would always be the apple of his eye. 

When Sascha was twelve, he asked Mischa about masturbation.

“Is this normal?!” He’d yelped, frantic, keeping his voice as low as he could while he leaned against the bathroom sink watching Mischa shave. Mischa could remember laughing at him, his hysteria, how _ashamed_ he’d been. “What do I do. Help.”

Mischa had paused to rinse his razor, watching Sascha in the mirror, cracking his knuckles with unguarded chagrin in his huge jade-colored eyes. “Sash, you’re a teenage boy. Masturbation is basically going to be your life for like the next ten years, until you’re lucky enough to get a significant other to help you out. Even then, you’re still gonna want to sometimes.”

“IT’S ALL I THINK ABOUT,” hissed Sascha, urgently. “Like, how did I not know about this before? Why does a rogue breeze make me hard?”

Mischa snorted at his word choice. “Get used to it, kiddo.”

“How do I hide this from Mum and Dad?" 

“The shower,” said Mischa, “is your new best friend. Also if you do it over the toilet it saves you a shit ton of cleanup.”

“Huh.” Sascha nodded, distracted, his eyes faraway. “Solid. So like, nothing is wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” said Mischa, his voice firm and fond. “You’re perfectly normal.”

And they had been, both of them, back then. Perfectly normal, if a little closer than your average pair of siblings, but that came with the territory of rigorous sport training. They didn’t have time to socialize or make friends like regular people. All they knew was practice, tournaments, travel, family. That was just how it was, and it was average life for them.

And then. Well. They weren’t average anymore.

*

Alex and Irina made the executive decision to take a train instead of a plane from Marseilles to Paris and on Wednesday afternoon they boarded the 15:35 to the city of blinding lights. All in all it was about a three hour trip and they curled up for the long haul in two rows of seats, Alex and Irina in front, Sascha and Mischa in back. Sascha took the aisle for the sake of his giraffe legs. The fate of the week seemed destined for rain and Mischa watched translucent silvery pearls of liquid create nonsensical loop-the-loops on the reinforced windowpane, aware of Sascha stretched long and restless beside him. Mischa was on this weird old-time big band music kick and he couldn’t stop listening to _Unchained Melody_ and despite its love-addled lyrics it just reminded him of gloom, felt like a gray sky. Sascha might have been the deep cut musical expert but Mischa was introspective and chose his playlists based on the forecast, whether internal or external. Today he felt like a calm summer storm so the songs in his ears were slow rain, dark ambience, soft.

Sascha tapped his phone screen and Mischa looked up.

“Righteous Brothers?”

Mischa smirked. “Uh huh. Ironic.”

Sascha looked at him in confusion for a moment but then upon his symmetrical face understanding waxed like a sunrise. “Oh, _I_ see.”

“Coincidence.” Mischa pressed Sascha’s home screen, examined his NOW PLAYING, which to his total lack of surprise was something wholly obscure. “How is it that you know everything I ever listen to but I never have a clue with you?”

“Because I’m a walking cliche and I only know how to express myself through music so I go hard in the paint?” Sascha shrugged. “There’s not a lot in there that you don’t already understand about me.”

“There’s a difference between knowing and understanding,” said Mischa. “One’s more of an educated guess.”

“Your educated guesses are probably correct.”

“Probably isn’t definitely.” Mischa threw him a shit eating grin. “I know you’re full of secrets.”

“One or two.” Sascha stretched, rubbed his palm over his stomach, plucked at the hem of his t-shirt, hiking up over his arrowing hipbones. “Just like you.”

“Mm.” Mischa was wary of Alex and Irina in front of them. He hated that they had to tread so lightly, hated that they couldn’t speak out loud, yet simultaneously he couldn’t deny the thrill that their tiptoeing uncertainty instilled in him. “I’ll have to dig deeper.”

“I gave you my phone,” said Sascha patiently. “It’s not like I’m hiding.”

“Hiding in plain sight, maybe,” said Mischa, and Sascha smirked for that.

They reclined in companionable silence, languorously watching the rain, leaning against each other’s arms on the divide between them. After a period of time Sascha shoved it up and situated himself sideways on Mischa so he could sleep; this was something they’d done for ages, but today everything felt warmer and closer than usual. Mischa laid his arm down over Sascha’s chest, crooked his elbow so he could rummage through the back of Sascha’s messy hair, and there they stayed. Sascha’s eyes were open.

Mischa wasn’t sure if he slept at all, but he didn’t move, and they spent the remainder of the ride as they were. Occasionally one or the other would reach to change a song or adjust a shirtsleeve but Mischa leaned back and kept his arm locked possessively around Sascha’s upper torso and they both shut their eyes and played pretend.

When they arrived in Paris it was later than expected; they’d had a slight delay at one of the stops for a mild technical concern that had set them back by about half an hour. Rumpled and hungry and exhausted from travel, they clambered into a cab and set off for the condo that would be their home for the foreseeable future, and despite their weariness Sascha and Mischa were locked to the windows immediately, fascinated by the architecture and the lights and the droves of colorful people. Paris was Mischa’s city. He always felt welcomed by the finicky red clay.

When they reached their condo Alex and Irina thrust the address upon the boys and instructed them to find food and bring it back while they unpacked. Sascha protested that he wanted to see the place before they went but Alex was gently insistent that their time for exploration would come - as soon as they brought back dinner. So, with not a little grumbling, they scavenged the streets nearby, eventually stumbling upon a pizza place.

“Do you know anything about where we’re staying?” Sascha asked, as they were waiting in a corner booth for their order to be completed. Mischa knew he was asking about the room situation.

“Just that it’s on the second floor,” said Mischa, shaking his head. “I think they got it last minute. Dad’s great about that stuff.”

“Wanna bet we have three rooms.” Sascha was moody, scowling; Mischa recognized the signs of hanger.

“Sash, eat some bread, you’ll be okay.” Mischa chucked his chin, as he always did when Sascha was annoyed. He wasn’t intimidated by Sascha’s raincloud teenage angst. “Just sneak in and say hi if we have separate rooms. They’ll never know. If they catch us, how many million reasons are there for that?”

“Eh. Maybe a thousand.”

“Cloooooose enough.” Mischa reached over and Sascha grabbed his hand, braided their fingers briefly, slid their skin together like he was stroking the softest of blankets. Under his t-shirt, Mischa’s stomach contracted, thrilled and jittery, suddenly realizing that they were not going to be sleeping inches from their parents that night.

“You think they’ll make us wake up early tomorrow?”

“No,” said Mischa, rubbing his thumb between the crevices of Sascha’s fingers, shy. They had both leaned subconsciously closer over the table when Sascha had touched his hand, prone to hiding, to shame. After a moment they both let go, but Mischa was aware of how much neither of them wanted to. “They never make us do much the day after we travel, if they can help it. Plus we had a good long session this morning, so Dad will be happy. I don’t know about Mum.”

“Yeah, she’s chill, usually.” Sascha was biting his lip, thigh jouncing up and down in anxious rhythm beneath the table. “Do you want to get up in the morning? Let them sleep and go for a run?”

“Depends whether we’re up at three am again,” said Mischa meaningfully, and Sascha flashed a grin that was stricken through with shock. “Nah, for real. We can go.”

“Even if we’re up at a blasphemous hour?”

“Even if.” Mischa cocked an eyebrow. “Blasphemous, eh?”

Sascha’s head was turned for that; he was fluent in synonyms but he wasn’t going to reveal his hand. “Unholy, if you will.”

“Uh huh,” agreed Mischa. He withdrew Sascha’s cross from where it rested warm against his skin and sucked it between his teeth. “You might say...sacrilegious.” 

“Very good,” said Sascha on a breath, and he was about to speak again when three steaming boxes of cheese and garlicky bread dough plopped down in front of them. They grabbed their loot and off they went, starving for more than sustenance, run ragged by all the taunting and tantalizing. So close, but so not; so not at all.

As they raced back across the street, wending their way through pedestrians and little beeping cars, Mischa looked up and observed that the moon was high and circular, garish yellow against the sky, blossomed. He caught his lower lip between his front teeth. He and Sascha never did get solid sleep on a full moon.

When they arrived at their front door Irina answered looking apologetic.

“I have good news and bad news,” she said, as her sons came leaping through the doorway, curious. 

“What?” Mischa, wary.

“The good news is, you get separate beds.”

“And your own bathroom,” said Alex helpfully, from the kitchen.

“Bad news is, there’s only two rooms,” said Irina. 

“Oh, what?” Sascha had already ripped into a piece of garlic bread; he was supremely nonchalant. “That’s not a bad thing. I thought you were going to say it was bunks or something.”

“That would have been shit,” agreed Mischa, feeling as though his chest might burst with the light that was suddenly encompassing him. It was probably for the best that they weren’t sharing a bed because as much as he wanted to ruck recklessly up against Sascha’s hips, if they started fucking around seriously during the French Open, who knew what havoc that might wreak upon their focus. He grabbed a piece of pizza from the box, shoved the end in his mouth, spoke around the bite. “Where is it? Are the beds big?”

Alex pointed them in the correct direction, towards the back of the house. “Your stuff’s in there. Also check out the balcony while you’re at it. You have your own.”

Sascha was already running; Mischa blew after him, pizza in hand. When they found their room they both stood in the doorway, gazing at the primly made queen beds for a dead moment, then Mischa splayed his hands around Sascha’s skinny hips and pushed him gently to the side so he could get out to the balcony. His prints were still searing Sascha’s skin when he joined Mischa again, in the night air they’d just abandoned. 

“Fuck,” said Sascha after a second. “I didn’t even notice the moon.”

“Unholy hour here we come,” said Mischa, wickedly, and Sascha felt his lower stomach twist. Mischa’s tone was always doing things to him; he was good at reading the situation and delivering, like a movie trailer voiceover.

“I told you you’d find me out if you knew where to look,” he said softly. “ _Sacrilege._ It’s not about burning Bibles, you know.”

“I know that,” said Mischa. His eyes lingered on the gold glinting at Sascha’s throat. “You do everything deliberately. How could I not know that?”

Sascha smiled.

“You pay more attention to me than anyone else in the world,” he said. “You always have.” 

“I told you,” said Mischa. “You’re mine.”

“And I told you that you have no idea how true that is.”

They looked at each other and Mischa framed Sascha’s jaw with one of his huge hands. He felt like a cloud, diaphanous.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go eat. They’ll come looking for us.”

*

It was decreed by Alex that no early morning hitting would be taking place. They would awaken when they awoke and as long as they got on the court for an hour or so the next day he was happy. He and Irina took books out to their own balcony and the boys draped themselves over the living room furniture and cast Sascha’s Netflix onto the television. Every so often they’d look at each other and smirk; Mischa felt like they were standing on the beach watching a tsunami approach, unable to move and unable to stop the impact that would soon be upon them. He was constantly adjusting his crotch but it was no good; his brain and his body had reached a deadly joint decision about Sascha’s proximity and his blood was hot; he was _interested._ A few times Sascha caught him at it and his eyes were esoteric but his tongue flicked out to rest upward against the inner part of his upper lip and Mischa knew he was interested, too. For all that wriggling he could have been a caterpillar.

Mischa could not stop thinking about the fact that their room had a lock on its door. 

At ten-thirty Sascha announced that he was going to unpack and did Mischa want to join him, because it was horribly boring to unpack by himself. Mischa obliged knowing that Sascha had things other than empty suitcases on his mind and when they reached their room Sascha closed the door behind them and looked long at him.

“What, you,” said Mischa with some wariness.

“Nothing, I seriously want to unpack,” said Sascha, but there was an element of sly around his eyes. “Also, have you looked at our shower?”

“Wait,” said Mischa, “we have a shower? Like, in our room?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha. “Like, a private shower, in our room, and it’s huge. Come look.”

He led Mischa to the left side of their room, in the middle of which was a door that Mischa had completely missed in his earlier quest to reach the balcony, and when he walked through the entranceway he nearly sat down where he stood.

The shower was, indeed, massive. So massive, in fact, that it contained two separate showerheads, designed for one to face the other, begging for the commitment of sin. The nozzles were huge and circular; obviously adjustable. It was maybe fifteen feet lengthwise; seven feet widthwise, high ceilinged open space.

“Okay, fuck.” 

“Yeah.” Sascha strode forward to slide the glass door and inspect inside the echoey space, curious. “Opulent.”

“Definitely excessive.” Mischa’s palms were damp.

“Time saving, I suppose?” Sascha’s voice was innocent enough but even the implication that they might shower together drained Mischa’s mouth dry.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe time wasting.”

“Showers are never wasted time.”

“I like that logic.” Mischa leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “When did you find this?”

“Earlier. You were out with mum on the living room balcony.” Sascha withdrew his curly head, smiled. “Are you obsessed?”

“Yes. Now we have to run tomorrow as an excuse to use this,” said Mischa. “Have you found fluffy towels or bathrobes or anything yet? That seems only fitting for this majestic ass shower.”

“Towels under the sink.” Sascha pointed. “Out of luck on the bathrobes, I’m afraid.”

“Wonder if Mum and dad got so lucky?”

“Oh yeah, they have a jacuzzi, it’s dope.” Sascha wrinkled his nose. “Don’t think about that too hard.”

Mischa threw him a wry grin. “As long as they don’t think about THIS at all.”

He gestured vaguely between them, at the shower, and Sascha pressed his back against the glass divider, fully attentive now. He said, “Or what is most likely going to transpire in this shower at three AM.”

“Or at honestly any time, because we not only have a bedroom door that locks, but a bathroom door that locks,” said Mischa, casually. “Just a thought.”

Sascha raised his eyebrows.

“Mischa,” he said, impressed. “Are you trying to start something?”

He was half joking but he was giving Mischa the reins here and he was as down as his brother was: whatever he wanted, Sascha would do. His lower stomach ached with burgeoning want.

Mischa considered. He almost bit his tongue but he was tired of speaking in riddles.

“It’s more that I’m trying to stop myself from starting something literally every minute of every day when I’m around you right now,” said Mischa, and his voice was calm but just beneath its clear glass surface lurked a hint of a growl.

Sascha’s face was bulldozed.

“You didn’t stop yourself the other night,” he said. “You knew what I was doing and you came in anyway.”

“Yeah, well.” Mischa shrugged. “I never said I had good impulse control.” 

“Jesus, if that’s what you think is bad impulse control.” Sascha shook his head. “Your discrepancies are few and far between.”

“Maybe. But they’re not small.”

“You don’t think so?” Sascha’s eyes were probing. “Do you lose sleep over them?”

“Uhhh.” Mischa tugged at his shirtsleeve, let loose a breath. “Not in the way that I probably should.”

“No?” Sascha was excellent at twenty questions. “How should you?”

“I don’t know. Not because I’m hard from it,” said Mischa, cutting off his line of questioning; he knew what Sascha was hunting. “Probably doing Hail Marys or something.”

Sascha laughed. “Mary full of grace. God, it’s been ages.” Then his eyes changed. “Wait, did you just say you were hard from it?”

Mischa smirked; he loved having the upper hand. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“I’m always surprised when you give me something like this,” said Sascha frankly.

“Well, it’s just like you,” said Mischa. “You prefer to communicate with music. I use my actions. You know that I came in after you because I wanted to; you don’t need me to say it out loud. I’m not good at talking about tough stuff.”

“It is tough,” agreed Sascha. He tilted his head. “Come with me. We’ll unpack. We’ll listen to songs. You can put me on the spot this time.” 

Mischa laughed and followed him out into their room, lit the lamps, peeked out to the sky from the drawn shades. The moon was high, a judging platinum sphere above him. He withdrew. “I’m not that cruel. I know some things.”

“You know some things?” Sascha was amused, bending over his suitcase to start a war with his zipper. The thing never seemed to cooperate when it was closed and often more than one member of the Zverev family had to fight with it before it came undone. Tonight, though, he was lucky, and he won the battle in just a few seconds.

“I told you I pay attention to you,” said Mischa, calmly. The air was strange, charged, hot; normal for them now when they were alone - and sometimes not, when they were not on their guard. “Play me a song, Sash.” 

So Sascha did, and Mischa threw himself across his bed to reach for Sascha’s phone on the dresser. He knew what he would see before he looked, but his mind clamored for clarification and he had to give in. _Sacrilege_.

“Well, now,” he said slowly. “You’re putting yourself on the spot, aren’t you?”

Sascha met his eyes in defiance.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” he said, and Mischa loved him so much in that moment, knew that Sascha was telling him over and over again that he didn’t care, he didn’t care that they were brothers, he didn’t care that this was not normal or correct or something they would ever be able to shine light upon. Nothing was exactly happening purely by definition alone but then again something was definitely brewing and Mischa thought what it would be like to kiss him, lay skin to skin, everything they weren’t saying as clear as the Tahitian sea. He had never been so vulnerable with anyone as he was with Sascha. He could still be more vulnerable, and that scared him.

Sascha grabbed his earbuds from where he had thrown them on his bed, connected them to his phone, walked over to where Mischa was lying stomach down on the bed and placed one gently in his ear. The other he let dangle down his brother’s shirt and then he simply knelt in front of Mischa and looked in his eyes.

“Remember when I told you that the music I listen to is what I feel?”

Mischa nodded, snake-charmed, hoodoo victim. Sascha’s face was as open as he’d ever seen it.

“It’s not just the words,” said Sascha. “It’s the actual music. I can’t explain it but it’s like an out of body experience. Sometimes it’s not even the words at all. Does that make sense?”

“Like re-creation of a feeling,” said Mischa, and Sascha nodded.

“Yes.” He raised the other earbud to Mischa’s ear, slipped it in, pressed play. “This is how I’ve felt lately. Just like this.”

Mischa looked at him as slow, muted, bell-like sound began to build in his ear. “I feel like I’m reading your diary or something.”

Sascha smiled. “Shhh.”

So Mischa shushed. And he listened. For the next five and a half minutes, he went to Sascha’s world, a place he’d been visiting frequently lately, this time with Sascha hovering nervously in front of him. He was wrecking his thumbnail bloody with his front teeth and his gaze kept flickering to Mischa’s face but Mischa’s eyes were closed; he was traveling galaxies amid tumbling lights. The song was ethereal bells and faraway deep-night forest sound layered atop a maddening white noise buzz, wordless beauty chased by insensible chaos. When the melody melded somewhere in the middle Mischa felt his heart stop; he understood that this was Sascha’s way of coming to terms with the majestic fearsome swooping in his chest.

And then the voice: 

_tonight I fall_

Mischa opened his eyes.

_from far below_

Sascha watched his face, observed wonder and comprehension, smiled again. Mischa smiled back, slow. 

_i’m ready for dimensional connection gold_

Mischa had to think about that, add and subtract in his mind, but in the end he understood. He knew that Sascha did everything deliberately; he had chosen this piece of his mind to share for a reason. He was complicated and astonishing and he knew three languages and yet he chose song to articulate his heart. This song was the frenzied heartbeat in his chest when they were lying close in bed; the pulse of blood in his veins when Mischa squeezed the scruff of his neck. It felt like a revelation and a confession. When it ended - and he didn’t want it to - he pulled the earbuds loose and let them fall into Sascha’s hand.

“This is how you feel?”

Sascha nodded.

“The music or the lyrics?”

“Both,” said Sascha. “Mostly the intro.”

Mischa exhaled.

“I don’t know what to say, Sash,” he said. “It’s like a thousand different emotions at once. It’s astonishing.”

“At least a thousand,” said Sascha. “You liked it?”

“I loved it,” said Mischa, and he meant it.

“Good,” said Sascha, “because this entire list of songs is about you.”

Mischa had suspected as much; he’d surmised that conclusion ages ago, but to hear Sascha say it sent him reeling. He ducked his head; he couldn’t stop smiling.

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“I know,” said Sascha, and he was fondly exasperated. “you were just going to keep speaking body language until I got it. Well. I’ve been reading you loud and clear. Now I’m talking back to you.”

“I’m listening,” said Mischa in earnest. “Will you let me hear more?”

“Yes,” said Sascha. “Tomorrow. If you behave.” 

He shot Mischa a coy sidelong grin. 

“Sash, this means more to me than you know,” said Mischa. He reached out, cupped Sascha’s axblade jawline. “No one has ever made a playlist for me before. I mean, I don’t think. But still.”

Their faces were so, so close. Sascha’s eyes were darting between Mischa’s gaze and his lips and the urge between them was overpowering; Mischa dug his fingernails sharply into his palms, caught his breath.

“I thought you should know,” said Sascha on a hush. He rested his forehead against Mischa’s and instinctively Mischa inched closer on the edge of the bed, starving. He groaned under his breath.

“You’re setting me up for failure here.” 

“Please advise,” said Sascha, amused, unmoving.

Mischa’s voice poured core-deep want. “I’m supposed to be focused on the French open - which, by the way, you are too - and all I can think about is...” 

“Yeah?” Sascha, breathier than he would like to admit, impatient.

“Is...” Mischa rose to his haunches and Sascha followed his progress upward, eyes on Mischa’s mouth, clutching him around the forearm so he could drag him off the bed. He got his hands around Mischa’s shoulders and slowly, slowly slid them down so he could open his gigantic palms over the small of Mischa’s back and Mischa was shaking, ill with need. “You and me in the bathroom. You and your _jesus fuck_.”

Sascha tightened his grip on Mischa’s skin. “You make this noise when you cum.” 

“It’s involuntary. I don’t even know that I do it,” said Mischa. Cautiously he hooked his thumbs shallowly into the sides of Sascha’s waistband, testing both of their limits.

“I want to do it again,” said Sascha, low.

Mischa paused to regain the air that had been pummeled out of him from that quick confession.

“Me too.”

“Then maybe we should,” said Sascha, and Mischa was about to respond when a soft tapping on the door made them leap apart. Mischa flung himself stomach-down on his bed and started digging in his suitcase like unpacking was his professional career; Sascha dove for the floor, where he could throw something from his suitcase over his lap. They both squawked, “come in,” and it was truly miraculous that their mother didn’t notice a thing amiss. 

“We’re going to bed,” she said, smiling at them. “Will you be up for eclairs and coffee tomorrow morning?”

“Of course,” said Mischa, and Sascha nodded. “We might go for a run when we wake up so if we aren’t here when you get up don’t freak out. I’ll leave a note.”

“Okay.” Irina cast her eyes over the room, amused. “I see you’ve been doing exorbitant amounts of unpacking.”

“Eh. We were motivated but then bed,” said Sascha, shrugging. “We’ll get it done. If we don’t actually end up running though, will you wake us up for breakfast?” 

“Yeah,” said Irina. “It’ll probably be somewhat late. You know how long your dad sleeps after traveling.” 

“God. Yes.” Sascha laughed. “Well, let us know.”

Irina bid them goodnight; when she shut the door gently behind her Mischa exhaled the breath that he’d been keeping in, a helium balloon slowly letting out air.

“It’s like she knows,” he said, and Sascha threw a shirt at him.

“Don’t even say that.”

“Seriously.” Mischa rolled on his back, examined the ceiling. “Can I ask you something?”

“Do you really have to ask if you can ask me something?”

“Shut up. How far have you gone?”

Warily Sascha said, “Like - sex stuff?”

“Yeah.” 

“Um, I got a hand job once,” said Sascha contemplatively. “It was honestly boring, I can do that myself. Other than that I’ve kissed two girls and one guy. Oh, I fingered this girl from Holland once, when I was there for a challenger.”

Mischa when he spoke was clearly grinning. “How was that?”

“It was fine,” said Sascha, “kind of sticky, I guess. What about you?”

“I had sex with Johanna,” said Mischa, and Sascha gave a derisive snort. “Oral, too. With a few people.”

“How many people have you had sex with?” Sascha’s voice cracked with the force of his curiosity. 

“Three,” said Mischa, “I try to be careful. So it was just _fine_? Sash.”

“What? I wasn’t impressed,” said Sascha. “I didn’t have anything to compare it to at the time so I was excited, I suppose. But - “ 

“Uh huh?”

“I told you, I’ve never been this constantly hard in my entire life. Ever. And the other night, when you came in, I was, like. About to explode. And then watching you finish after me, I could have gone again.” 

“Sash, I have decent stamina,” said Mischa in a strained voice, “but with you next to me, I do not. You know what I’m saying?”

“I know,” said Sascha, and he did. “You’re not the only one losing sleep because you’re turned on for that.”

They were both hard now, embarrassingly so, and Sascha was palming himself almost absentmindedly, already damp at the slit for the recent lack of fruition and the dirty conversation. Mischa was rubbing the heel of his hand against his cock and when he turned his head to look down Sascha was right there on the ground leaned up against the bed, watching him with interest, eyes iniquitous in the lamplight. Their gazes fixed.

“Sash, will you lock the door,” said Mischa, and Sascha was up, scrambling. He twisted the lock and collapsed into bed next to Mischa in less than two seconds; his eyes on Mischa’s hand where it played at his crotch were huge. Mischa watched him watching, stroked using his full hand, squeezed gently and rubbed through cloth until he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning. He reached boldly inside his shorts and his hand came flush with swollen skin and he said out loud, “fuck.”

Sasch asked, “Here?” And Mischa replied, “if you want.”

“Yes,” said Sascha through gritted teeth, and he raised his hips so he could pull off his jeans, pool them at his ankles. Everything was gently illuminated and Mischa did not hide his curious stare; the head of Sascha’s cock peeked from the flap of his boxers, fighting the material for liberty, and when Sascha reached in to free himself they both hissed aloud.

Sascha opened his thighs and stroked himself once, lazily, and Mischa was immediately incentivized. He pushed his gym shorts down over his knees and pushed the heel of his hand slow over the straining bulge in his boxers and then he wriggled his shoulders down into the mattress, withdrew his needy erection. Sascha was watching him sharklike and he bit his lip for the sight of Mischa arching his hips against the bed, gripping himself, clear salt fluid leaking from his slit. Sascha could not keep from whimpering, just a little bit, but Mischa caught the sound and his pupils dyed instantly crowfeather black.

This time, clearly, it was as much for show as pleasure. Both were so preoccupied with watching the other that they forgot to be embarrassed; Sascha kept flicking his thumb over his slick head and Mischa could see how his stroke got smoother and smoother with each douse of precum. Meanwhile he was gripping himself from base to crown just to pop his hand off at the end, caress the tip so his cock would twitch, and it did so, shudderingly. This was Sascha’s newfound kink and he had to bite back numerous expletives as he observed. If he went to town watching Mischa play with himself he’d be the one with no stamina.

Finally Mischa let his thighs split apart and in doing so his left leg came to rest precariously against Sascha’s right. Sascha startled but didn’t move away. 

“Is that okay?” Mischa asked, gruffly.

“Yes,” answered Sascha with force, and Mischa nodded and then he was setting the pace, no longer able to wait, because fuck if he hadn’t been holding out for three days. Sascha was iridescent beside him, big hand rhythmic on his swollen cock, lips parted and eyes fastened to Mischa’s crotch. Mischa’s left arm lay slack against Sascha’s furiously pumping right one and he was wrecked about whether or not to touch Sascha’s arm with his free hand. Their thighs were pasted together with determination and sweat.

After multiple moments of this Sascha whined aloud, stomach shuddering, and Mischa looked up, into his face. His vision was hazing out at the edges, pre-orgasm brownout.

“Fuck, Sash.”

“Are you gonna,” hissed Sascha, and Mischa nodded.

When they came it was almost simultaneous, knees locking against each other’s, hips bucking instinctively, milky liquid flowing like lava through clenched fingers. Again Sascha spat something like, “Christ, Mischa, yes,” and Mischa understood that voyeurism as a kink was in their future; he was wanton enough for Sascha lying next to him beating off into his own palm, but alone, in the spotlight, he wondered what they might do, how much further mad they could drive each other. He reached over with his dry hand and swiped rogue damp curls from Sascha’s forehead, Sascha’s breath coming heated and rabbit-foot rapid through his open mouth.

They cleaned up in the bathroom, rinsing off on opposite ends of the enormous shower because apparently cleansing themselves of the remnants of their second joint masturbation session together was impossible. When they were toweling dry on the thick fluffy mats Sascha said with regal nonchalance,

“I don’t think you have me beat.” 

“I don’t think you have ME beat,” retorted Mischa, laughed out loud for his audacity.

“Oh I don’t,” said Sascha, knotting the towel at his jutting hipbones. “I think we’re both doing all right.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mischa. His eyes lingered on the path of dark hair straying down Sascha’s lower stomach and he sighed without meaning to. “You grew up.”

“Yeah, remember when I was shorter than you?”

“Remember when I could carry you on my shoulders?” Mischa groaned, shook his head. “This is fucked up, Sash.”

“Probably,” said Sascha amicably. “But I keep wondering when I’ll feel guilty about it, and I don’t.” 

“Me neither,” said Mischa. “I’ve been feeling like everything is happening so fucking fast but I don’t think that’s quite true, is it?”

“No,” said Sascha. “But I couldn’t pinpoint any kind of starting place. I just kind of started looking at you different and when I started testing you out I sorta thought that it might be happening with you too.”

He paused, flashed a vulpine grin.

“I can tell you that I never liked Johanna. I just didn’t know why for a while. But then...” he shrugged. “I did.”

“You’ve been driving me crazy for almost a year and a half,” said Mischa bluntly. “You and all your fucking teasing.”

“So you did know,” said Sascha, triumphant.

“I did. But you were a kid,” said Mischa. “And you’re my little brother, Sascha. I felt like I couldn’t touch you.” 

Sascha leaned forward on his palms on the bathroom sink, looked at him sideways. 

“Am I still a kid?”

Mischa stared back at him with all the steadiness of a seasoned bartender’s hand over a shot glass.

“No.”

“So,” said Sascha matter of factly. “You can touch me now. More than you already have been, I mean.” 

That same immoral smile crossed his face and he cocked his head at Mischa in the mirror before clapping him on the shoulder and wandering out to the bedroom, still in his loose-draped towel. Mischa was not so spent that he could not still feel that sick drop of arousal in his stomach and he watched Sascha go wondering if he meant _now._

In the end he decided against it; they had done enough damage that night; his mind was going to explode if he followed his brother’s advice. And honestly, he figured, Sascha had been tantalizing him for months now. It was time to repay him in full.

*

They slept in their own beds, although Mischa hesitated before he chose. He knew the thought had been flirting around in Sascha’s mind too because he asked if Mischa thought their mother really would be in to wake them up in the morning.

“We should be up before her,” said Mischa smoothly, “but I’ll set an alarm.”

And he did. They slept until eight fifteen, woke up and drank a bottle of water each, and set out to run. There was a park across the street from their condo that Mischa had been eyeing so they started off there, looped it a couple of times, then deviated to run some side streets. Sascha was still struggling to wake up at first so he followed Mischa blindly but when they reached the main road he swore emphatically, bolstered by the sight of the city.

“I forgot how perfect it is here.”

Mischa smirked. “Most romantic city in the world, they say.”

Sascha laughed out loud and Mischa knew he was fully there at last. “That’s disgustingly ironic.”

“By the end of this week we’ll be feeding each other eclairs at the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

Sascha scoffed. “You can have your eclairs. I want gelato.” 

“Oh, truth. At this rate we can have both.” Mischa checked his watch. “Another mile? Two?”

“We go to the Arc du Triomphe. Pause for stupid tourist pics. Run back. Shower. Yes?”

“Yes.” Mischa liked how casual Sascha was, _shower_ like it was nothing, and still they hadn’t really fleshed out details with words, just song and frenzy. Further acknowledgement felt like fear and he didn’t like that. All the clarification he needed was Sascha cursing out loud watching Mischa come, saying _so you can touch me now._ He skated a finger down the slick rungs of Sascha’s spine, paused at his waistband. “You could use it.”

Sascha swiped at him and Mischa laughed, dodging. “Fuck off. You just want to watch.”

“My favorite part about you is your humility, Sash.” 

“Ha ha.” Drily. “You taught me everything i know, so.”

“You’re damn right. And I’m not done with you, either.”

His tone made Sascha glance over; Mischa’s eyes screamed mischief. Sascha’s eyebrows hiked to the ceiling of his forehead. 

“Oh no?!”

“Are you kidding? You’re practically a blank canvas,” said Mischa. “You have much to learn, young padawan.”

Here they were again, speaking in veiled tongues and now, strangely, Star Wars quotes. “I know some things.”

“Handjobs are just ‘fine’? Sash, please,” said Mischa. He was grinning. “You said I can touch you now. Do you want me to or not?”

Completely involuntarily Sascha’s internal brakes halted; he stopped on a dime, stared after his brother, who slowed down marginally, turned around, jogged backwards. His face was pristine. Sascha stacked his hands on his hips, wiped his salt-streaked forehead with an equally sweaty wrist, caught up with him.

“God damn it, Mischa.”

“Uh huh.” Mischa’s eyes were stricken through with sharp smugness, but he kept them trained ahead.

“Do I fucking want you to.” Sascha was wrecking his thumbnail again and he’d already drawn the copper tang of blood with the ferocity of his attack.

“I mean, I can’t tell,” said Mischa, and he nearly kept a straight face. “Really. You’re so hard to read.”

They were running across a bridge, gurgling water below them, chaotic zoom of cars beside them, but again, unmindful, sascha stopped. He put his hand out to snag Mischa’s arm and pushed him back against the high stone railing, fingertips drilling into his bare sweat-drenched chest; his touch was more firm than tender but Mischa thrilled for it, his roughness. Sascha matched his left hip forcefully with Mischa’s own and bulldozed into his space, looked at him, looked away, looked back. Mischa stopped breathing.

“Sash,” he said, and within his tone lay both a warning and a come on. “Public place.”

“I don’t care,” said Sascha, and the quality of his voice was damaged from want. “You’re telling me that you want to teach me about - about good handjobs, or whatever, and you expect me to take that lightly?”

“Not at all,” said Mischa seriously, searching him. “I want to know that I have your permission. You’re my kid brother and you’re sixteen. This is going to send us to the pits with Satan. Do you want this or not?”

Sascha sighed, frustrated; around them, the birds sang and the cars zoomed and the city hummed with mid morning life. Normalcy surrounding deviance. 

“Mischa, I would let you do anything to me,” he said quietly. “I would kiss you right now if I could.”

Mischa hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear Sascha’s confession until it was echoing in the air between them; just that morning he had been scared of spoken truths but now he was changed, resplendent. His entire body went momentarily numb.

“You would let me...?”

“Yes. Anything.” Sascha’s eyes were the greenest of green and there was nothing in his face but sincerity. Then, because he knew Mischa would ask: “I know what I’m saying, Meesh.”

Mischa stared powerlessly around. There were no pedestrians in sight but on the street beside them cars full of citizens swept steadily by, wrecking any semblance of privacy they might have had. At last he said, on breathless, disbelieving laughter: “You couldn’t have told me this in the shower last night?” 

Sascha grinned. “Nope.” He pressed his hip urgently into Mischa’s own, but he knew where they were and he knew how far he could push before Mischa would bolt. “But now you know.” 

“Jesus.” Mischa was shaking his head. “Jesus, Sascha.”

He slid a hand down through Sascha’s slick curls, thumbed along his spine again, looked cautiously around before he splayed his palm on Sascha’s heaving lower belly. Sascha hauled in a sharp breath; his skin was warm and Mischa could feel his blood pulsing. Their faces were close, mouths open, hesitation. Low, low, low he said,

“Do you have any idea the things I’ve been thinking of doing to you?”

Sascha was the one on his back heel now. “I have some idea,” he said cautiously, “but you know how fond I am of details.”

“I’m aware.” Mischa stroked down Sascha’s stomach; his own was suddenly aching, ripe with want. “The sooner we get home, the sooner you’ll start getting them. Come on.”

He leaned up, matched their foreheads like sascha was so fond of doing when he couldn’t speak about something, cupped the scruff of Sascha’s neck. Then he took off. His toes were curling in his sneakers against the downward blood rush occurring in his body but he knew Sascha was right there with him and in a second Sash was in stride with him again, still shaking a bit, but smiling. Everything seemed doused in fresh vibrancy now and Mischa found himself beaming too, for no apparent reason.

There was no watcher moon to judge them now, only the accepting embrace of the brazen faceless sun. In ten silent but comfortable minutes they reached the Arc and paused for a break beneath it, hands on their hips as they got their breath back, amazed. As promised sascha insisted upon stupid tourist pictures and Mischa obliged him because he, too, would have let sascha do anything. No one recognized them and Mischa thought, how precious that luxury, how much longer might it last. It was impossible to say.

“Selfie,” said Sascha, just before they left, “come here.”

“Saaaaaash,” groaned Mischa. “I look like shit, come on.”

“You look like I wanna lick that sweat off your upper lip, get the fuck over here,” said Sascha sternly, and Mischa lost his proverbial footing again, gaped at him. Sascha reached out and grabbed his shoulder and Mischa let himself be towed and managed to flash a brilliant smile at the camera before sascha released him again, smirking.

“Mum will shit herself over how cute we are.”

Mischa chuckled darkly. “The irony of this entire situation continues to astound me.”

“Yeah?”

“I think you and I will remember this day very differently than Mum,” said Mischa.

“Well Jesus, i should hope so,” said Sascha primly. “What time is it?”

“Uhhhh.” Mischa glanced at his watch. “Almost ten. Christ, we’ve been gone a while.”

“Let’s go back,” said Sascha, and Mischa looked at him and read his eyes and nodded.

It was a miracle he didn’t trip over himself on the trek home, so absorbed was he in shadowy imaginations of the near future. He was afraid and he was jubilant and he was starving; he had want and he had need and he had trepidation. Sascha was, indeed, a blank slate; their nearly ten-year age difference guaranteed that, and in the back of his mind Mischa was aware that he might be Sascha’s first in more than one category. The thought both invited and repulsed him, that he could do that to his brother, that Sascha by all accounts wanted him to.

_I know what I’m saying, Meesh._

Mischa was almost certain that by so saying Sascha was covering this topic of conversation.

When they reached their condo Mischa reached down to untie the key from his shoelace; they raced up the steps and Mischa had just fit the key in the lock when the door swung open in his face. Alex and Irina were standing there beaming at them, both fully dressed and looking like the two most eager people in the world.

“Hurry up if you want coffee and eclairs,” said Irina. “We got you a time on Suzanne Lenglen.”

Sascha and Mischa looked at each other, looked at their parents, and yelled out loud.

“I thought it was booked?!”

“When?!”

“An hour and a half from now,” said Alex, grinning. “We thought we could pick up breakfast and eat it on the way over there. You’re booked for 45 minutes. Nadal rescheduled and your mother happened to call at the right time.”

“No way.” From Sascha, who’d never been on a major slam court in his life.

“Yes way. Come on, get changed, we have to get over there,” said Irina, her face lit all the way up. “Your racquet bags are packed. We’ll take a taxi from the cafe.”

Sascha hurtled past them and Mischa, laughing at his exuberance, followed him into their room, shutting the door gently behind them. The second he walked inside a clean t-shirt smacked him in the face; Sascha was frenetic.

“Mischa! _Suzanne Lenglen_ ,” he said with wonder, bent over his suitcase digging for a fresh outfit. “For us. Today.”

Mischa watched him, dragging the shirt over his sweaty head, fond. “Must be our lucky day.”

“It already has been,” said Sascha, beaming, skipping into a fresh pair of shorts, and Mischa felt warm from the inside out.

“I love you, Sash,” he said impulsively, and Sascha paused halfway through putting on a clean t-shirt, his face illuminating like dawn.

“I love you too, Meesh. More than anything.”

“Me too,” said Mischa softly, and he went to sascha and embraced him, briefly, squeezing as hard as he dared before releasing him to chuck his chin. “Now let’s go get you on Lenglen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sascha's song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqlXnBO_y_M). Sash, in a way, is all of us that use music to express themselves best, and I just see that in him, he seems like he has a lot hiding in that head of his. I especially had the intro in mind when choosing this to be his song for Mischa - the intro really is perfect. Ethereal beauty, confusion while you wait for it to settle, but when it comes together it's earthshattering. I took liberties (again) because this song was released AFTER the events of this story take place, but whatever, it's my party ;) Hope you enjoy.


	5. Chapter 5

Somehow the entire giraffe-legged family managed to squeeze into a cab with racquet bags and breakfast in tow. The bags crammed nicely in the trunk, while the boys and Irina sardined themselves into the backseat, clutching pastry bags and trying not to spill coffee all over each other. Mischa had drawn the unlucky straw of middle seat and the only way for him to sit without his knees being shoved in his face was to share foot space with his mother and brother, who barely had room as it was.

“We need a rental car,” grumbled Irina in German, as they inched along in traffic. “A sedan.”

“We get one this weekend, Mum,” said Mischa soothingly, in English. “The tournament will provide.”

“How are we doing back there?” Alex, in Russian, from his cozy front seat.

“Surviving,” answered Sascha. He had finished his croissant sandwich and he was now clutching his coffee cup like it was a precious artifact. Mischa couldn’t stop leaning sideways on him. Like a line of fire their thighs pressed hot together. 

“A few more kilos,” said Mischa soothingly, and Sascha grinned for that.

“It’s weird when you’re the calm one.”

“I was just thinking that,” said Irina, laughing. “Firecracker.”

Mischa smirked, sheepish. He was known as the hothead of the family because of his extreme up-down range of emotion on court, but when he was not in the middle of a match he was really rather mild. “I can be chill about stuff.”

“When you want to be,” said Sascha fondly, and Mischa pulled a face at him.

“Drink your coffee.”

“Oh I am.” Sascha checked his watch. “When are we supposed to go on?”

“Eleven thirty,” said Alex. “We’re fine.”

And they were. At eleven eighteen they piled out of the car outside the player’s entrance of the complex, stretching, exclaiming. Sascha’s mouth was agape.

Mischa, having performed this dance once or twice, led the way into the belly of the stadium, followed eagerly by Sascha, who was practically sprinting. At the check-in desk they were met by two officials, razor-sharp in their pressed suits, but they smiled when they saw Sascha’s exuberance.

“First time?”

Sascha chirped, “yes!” and Mischa, beaming, slid his arm around Sascha’s thin shoulders.

“Are you ready?” 

Sascha said he was, but he wasn’t. When they walked through the entryway and stepped on court with the fresh bloody clay radiant in the high sun he put his wrist to his forehead and shaded his eyes and just stood and looked, awestruck. Swooning. Alex and Irina, laughing, pulled him further on court to where Mischa was setting up his station, watching Sascha out of the corner of his eye, amused.

“You okay, Sash?”

“I think I’ve died,” said Sascha, faintly. Roland Garros was one of his favorite slams and the highest he’d gone in juniors was court four; he had been courtside for the two times Mischa had been on Center and Lenglen but he’d never stepped foot on either. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Close,” said Mischa. “No cigar. But here you are. Soon this will be old hat.”

Maybe it would. But Sascha couldn’t fathom it. He was wide-eyed as a newborn and when they got out there to warm up both his and Mischa’s form continued. _Peaking._

An idle, curious crowd gathered; Mischa had the fleeting thought that instant recognition was nigh and he didn’t like it. Despite their audience they played a practice set with ease; Mischa won 6-4, but Sascha came close and the games hinged on one or two points. Afterward they clasped hands at the net and Mischa pulled sascha in for an embrace and the salt slickness of Sascha’s skin was unbearable. Lately their lives were sweaty hugs and sidelong glances and all the covert touches they could get away with without attracting suspicion and it felt like the biggest con they would ever pull off.

“We packed you fresh clothes if you want to shower here,” said Irina as they were toweling off, two minutes to go on their court time. “We thought we might go eat lunch and go exploring.”

The boys swapped a little loaded glance; Mischa knew they had both anticipated a locked bedroom and a lengthy shower following their practice. He asked, “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you’ve always wanted to go,” said Alex coyly, grinning at them. 

“Uh,” said Sascha, cocking his head. “Well, we’ve already been to Notre Dame, so.” 

“You’ll see.” Irina glanced to the side of the court, where a gaggle of hopeful bystanders - mostly young girls - had gathered, looking for autographs. “I think you have some admirers.”

Mischa and Sascha looked at each other, smirked, looked at the small crowd.

“That’s weird,” said Sascha, dismissively. “I’m not famous enough for this shit.”

“I still feel like that,” said Mischa. “I don’t like people knowing who I am.”

“You’re both in the wrong profession,” said Alex, laughing at them. “You’ll be fine. You guys get cleaned up and we’ll meet you when you’re done. Can you eat again soon?”

“Literally at any time of the day,” said Sascha, and Mischa nodded vigorously.

So Alex and Irina went to explore the grounds and Sascha and Mischa left the court, stopping to sign for their admirers, and Sascha said in Russian on their way into the tunnel, “I thought that one girl was gonna ask you to sign her tits.”

Mischa laughed out loud, knowing exactly who Sascha was referring to: a doll-like brunette wearing enough makeup for three women and a shirt that seemed to plunge halfway to her navel. He’d never felt comfortable around the groupies: they never were actually interested in the players themselves, they wanted the vicarious fame. “Ugh. A few more seconds and she might have asked.” 

Sascha grinned at his response. “A no from you?” 

“Solid no.” Mischa hip-checked him gently. “Why, you jealous?”

“I prefer the word territorial.”

“Uh huh. You get that from me.” Mischa looked all around them at the mess of colors and players and personalities, the noise, the complete lack of solitude. “Mum and Dad picked a bad day for exploring.”

“They are really, really good at bad timing,” said Sascha calmly. “The good news is they’re usually great at surprises. They know us pretty well.” 

“Not sure if that’s a good thing,” said Mischa with a quirked eyebrow, and Sascha _mmmm_ ed sharply.

“Good point.”

“Ah well. I don’t hate teasing you,” said Mischa, low, as they squeezed their precarious way into the locker room. Here it was not quite as busy as the lounge; it was early enough in the week that most players were either hitting or off site. Qualifying matches began today; Mischa had just scraped main draw with a wildcard because the French tennis federation had been impressed with his performance in the past and liked to reward its high quality entertainers.

“Ah. In that department, it’s you who has much to learn,” said Sascha, and he winked like a devil. “You’re so shy, Mischa.”

They were speaking in hisses and murmurs but Mischa reared back for that, playfully stunned, the first few words of his retort were a yelp. “So talking about good handjobs wasn’t enough for you?”

“I’ll admit that was good,” said Sascha, grinning. “I mean physically. You like it when I pay attention to you with touch. I like that too.”

Mischa smirked. “There’s only so much I can do with the entire fucking world watching.”

“I’ve been getting away with it, haven’t I?” Sascha stripped his shirt, hung it on the nearest bench, spread out his things on the wood. “You’re figuring it out. But Mum and Dad raised us to be affectionate. Their heads don’t turn for anything. You know?”

“I can think of a few things their heads might turn for.”

“Mee _shaaaaaa_.”

“Okay, okay.” Mischa put his hands up at Sascha’s sweet exasperation. “Teach me, then.”

Sascha looked at him, smirked, pulled his shorts and his boxers down in one swift motion so he stood bare in front of Mischa, who looked at him with shock and appreciation and no shame at all. “Just remember that you asked for it.”

“Fuck off,” said Mischa, but he was so, so interested and he had to wipe his mouth to clear his face of its little grin.

They showered in stalls next to each other, careful to keep conversation light in case they were joined by anyone who spoke any of their three languages. Their best bet when they found that they didn’t want to be understood was to switch rapidly between German and Russian, two very different languages that sounded like dark barking anger when combined. Sascha called it their _komisch Zunge_ , weird tongue. As children they had used the combination to trip their parents up for fun, see how much they understood, and often they had gotten away with entire conversations in which Alex and Irina had comprehended only minor details. They’d never known what good use they could put it to in their later years.

*

For hours they wandered museums and shops and gardens, stopped for a quick lunch at a corner restaurant, took (more) stupid tourist photos and simply observed the way of life in the city. It was a stunning day, straight from a painting, and Mischa had taken Sascha to heart. He was feeling deeply affectionate and they walked with their arms around each other, loose and easy, always looking up. By dinnertime they were starting to believe that there was no surprise destination and their parents had simply wanted to spend time with them that day, which was more than fine. There was so much time to be had; it was one of those days in which they felt as though they had all the minutes seconds hours in the world.

As it happened, they were wrong, and the hinted-at excursion turned out to be none other than the Catacombs. Here Mischa was the one who lost it: he’d wanted to go below the streets of Paris since he was Sascha’s age but somehow the trip had never quite worked out; the tours had been temporarily suspended for maintenance or weather or something silly when they’d tried to go before, but now it was happening. Irina handed them their tickets as they were finishing up at another of her (excellent) handpicked restaurants. All of them - even Sascha - had had a glass of red wine and the atmosphere was relaxed and just a little bit hazy and Mischa kept squeezing Sascha’s knee under the table and he was feeling that touch _everywhere._

“All right,” said Mischa, examining the little paper stub. “I was skeptical at first. I’ve been converted.”

“You and your weird obsession with the macabre,” said Alex affectionately, ruffling his hair across the table. “We’ve been meaning to take you for ages. Two finals in the past three weeks, you’ve earned it.”

“I think I have, actually,” said Mischa, grinning. “So our time is tonight at eight? It’ll be dark then, yes?”

“Nearly. By the time we get out, it will be,” said Irina, wriggling her eyebrows at him.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” said Sascha loudly, and the entire family burst out laughing. Sash was the scaredy-cat of the clan: he liked true crime and mystery but he always got a bit apprehensive around Halloween and he would only watch scary movies with company and blazing lights.

“You never know, Meesh, Sash might be jumping into bed with YOU tonight,” said Irina, laughing at Sascha’s face, bone-white in the lighting. It was a well-known fact that Mischa often curled at the foot of Sascha’s huge bed at home; it was by far the roomiest and most comfortable mattress in the house.

Both Sascha and Mischa nearly choked on their wine.

“Count on it,” said Sascha boldly, and Mischa had to ram his fingernails into his thigh to stop himself flushing. “I don’t do creepy stuff.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Alex. “You can stay between us. Besides, it’s perfectly safe. Only one person has ever gotten lost in the catacombs.”

“That they know of,” said Mischa, and Sascha squeaked.

“That’s one too many.”

“Come on, Sash, you’re a big boy now,” cajoled Mischa, and Sascha kneed him gently beneath the tablecloth. “We’ll get gelato or something afterward to ease your pain.”

“Yes,” said Alex with gusto, and again they all laughed, easy in the warm twilit Parisian air.

The distance from the restaurant to the catacombs was an easy walk and after dinner they set out on foot. Sascha and Mischa hung behind and Mischa reached over, laced his fingertips lightly through Sascha’s own before withdrawing, both a tease and a cautionary strategy move.

“Count on it?”

“If you think I’m sleeping alone after this shit, you’re severely mistaken,” said Sascha, and his face was deathly serious. “I was not PREPARED.” 

“You just miss waking up with my boner in your side,” said Mischa, and Sascha laughed out loud, a deep joyous thing that began in his stomach.

“Actually.” 

“Thought so.” Mischa beamed, achievement accomplished, and scratched his fingernails through the wild hair at the nape of Sascha’s neck. “Gelato should be sufficient appeasement.”

Sascha looked at him sideways. “You know me better than that.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you want,” said Mischa easily, in their strange amalgamation of a tongue. “It’ll be a start, anyway.”

“Yeah, well.” Sascha put his hand on Mischa’s head, made a tender fist in his hair. “I’ve been thinking about your hand on my stomach all day.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about _do I fucking want you to_ ,” said Mischa, sucking air sharply through his nostrils as he shook his head. Around them, night loomed; fireflies emerged, sprite lights in a faerie garden. It was easier, as always, when the sun started descending. “I’m gonna explode. Again.” 

“Uh huh,” said Sascha. Then, muted. “You’ve got like voodoo on me or something. I can’t believe I can even get hard walking to my catacomb doom right now.” 

Mischa put his arm out and stopped Sascha in his tracks but he did it so he could swipe a surreptitious hand across the warmth of Sascha’s flat lower belly. Sascha swore, soft, watched Mischa suck his cross inside his cherry mouth.

“You’re hard?”

“Yes, and you touching me like that doesn’t help,” hissed Sascha; Mischa withdrew his hand, grinning. They fell in step again, only a fraction of a second behind their parents, who were engaged in light, oblivious conversation in front of them. 

“It really does only take a breeze.”

“It takes you touching me at all, in any way,” said Sascha.

“Uh huh. Me too. Or being near you.” Conversationally.

“Bonus: thinking about you giving me a handjob,” said Sascha, and Mischa let the cross drop, all internal inferno.

“So, all day then.”

“Literally.”

“Well. You know. I’m actually hard too, so,” said Mischa, and he winked at Sascha before catching up with their parents, knowing that they were walking tightropes suspended between high rises, skyrocketed levels of arousal in such a treacherous situation. They had to stop and he had to make them. Sascha would go for days with a straight face but Mischa - well, Mischa had pitiable impulse control.

As Sascha had predicted, doom had a way of being a buzzkill, and the second they descended the stairs into the Catacombs he started chattering nervously, sweaty palms and wary blacked-out eyes. 

“I don’t want to.”

“Saaaaaascha.” Mischa was behind him, palms on his brother’s hiked shoulders, working at the tension. “No one will be jumping out at you. You got this. Trust me.”

“It’s just a bunch of dead people,” said Alex, laughing in Sascha’s ear, and the youngest Zverev practically leapt out of his skin.

“Dad, come on.”

“Leave him be,” said Irina, swatting at her husband, who was chuckling good-naturedly. “It’s only an hour, Sash. It actually looks really cool.”

“You can choose the activities tomorrow,” said Mischa, consolingly. “I hear there are some decent libraries in town.”

“One or two,” said Irina, patting Sascha’s shoulder as they clustered together in the candlelit entrance room with multiple other tourists, the emotions of whom seemed to range from excited to terrified. “My brave boy. You’ll be fine.”

In the end, he was. The tour was, truly, quite interesting and Irina, who spoke decent French, was able to translate signs and tidbits that the guide, whose English was limited, added in the city’s native tongue. It was chilly below the surface of the earth and Sascha clung to Mischa for comfort and warmth because Mischa was the only thing keeping him sane surrounded by so many bones. Bones that, to Sascha’s horror, his family kept touching. Despite the guide’s assurance that it was perfectly safe to get hands-on, he was not convinced.

“We’re gonna bring a ghost home,” he kept insisting, and finally Mischa pressed a tiny kiss to the side of his head. Sascha stilled.

“Relax, Sash,” he said. “No Ouija boards in sight. This is all for show.”

“A very realistic show,” muttered Sascha. 

“Gelato,” said Mischa firmly. “Cookie dough. Scoops and scoops can be yours soon. Just picture it.” 

“Fuck off,” said Sascha lamely, but his voice was fond and when Mischa squeezed him he squeezed back.

When they emerged from the gift shop - Mischa bought a postcard for a personal keepsake and a t-shirt - they were greeted by full night and sharp silvery moonglow. The air felt restless and hot and damp from humidity. Mischa looked at Sascha, all rose cheeks and tumbled hair, and lost his breath.

“You survived, little brother,” he said, giving Sascha a congratulatory smack on the back.

“Yeah.” Sascha made a face. “Now I want my gelato.”

“Gelato you shall have,” said Irina, and the hunt began. It lasted for five minutes before Alex, who had a keen eye for dessert, spotted a brightly lit sweet shop with a line down the street.

“All the people means it’s good,” he insisted as they took their place at the end of the line, laughing at him. “You’ll see.”

“Full moon again,” said Irina, gazing at the sky. “Did everyone sleep okay?”

“Better than expected, actually,” said Sascha, and Mischa nodded. “It’s really dark in our room.”

“I think we have blackout curtains,” said Mischa. “Tonight it’s so bright, though. We’ll see.”

“Well, we know Sash isn’t sleeping, cause he’s worried about ghosts,” said Alex, teasing. “Which means that in all actuality, Meesh isn’t either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad, I can sleep through a hurricane,” said Mischa, looking straight ahead. Beside him, he felt sascha shift, marginally. 

“Do we have to be up at any certain time?” 

“We have court time at noon,” said Irina. “Other than that, just if you want to be up for breakfast again.”

“Guess we’ll wait to see how late Sash keeps me up,” said Mischa, and Sascha threw him a look with a capital L.

“So whose fault is it for dragging me there?”

“Actually, it’s ours,” said Irina cheerfully, “sorry, Meesh.”

“Eh, we’ll be fine,” said Mischa. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve. No one can be scared with Stepbrothers on TV.”

By this time they were about halfway to the door; Sascha smiled, eyes glittering, but he didn’t say a word. Mischa had spent sixteen years learning his brother by heart and he could practically hear his thoughts and he knew that Sascha was reading between his lines. 

It was nine thirty. It had been nearly twelve hours since Sascha’s infamous confession. Mischa felt like a countdown: how long until the ball dropped? How long until they were able to physically address the subject they’d been dancing around for months and months?

At the counter they ordered their standards: cookie dough for Sascha, fudge brownie for Mischa. They were creatures of habit about some things. It kept them grounded. They all sat outside, licking slow, savoring, and the amount of covert eye contact that Sascha and Mischa made was enough to set the air to fizzing with electricity.

“Told you it was good,” said Alex, grinning, when they’d all eaten the entirety of their cones.

“Dad wins again,” said Sascha.

“We need to come back here,” said Irina. “This is my pick for activity tomorrow.”

“New tradition,” said Mischa. He stood up; stretched. “Are you guys wanting to stay out longer? I’m wiped.”

Sascha followed smooth suit, not too quick, but Mischa could tell he was eager. “Me too. Even if I’m not going to sleep I want to, like, sit down. We’ve been going since eight am.”

“We can go back,” said Alex. “There’s always something to do, but God willing we’ll be here for at least another week.”

The boys looked at each other.

“We will be,” said Sascha confidently, and Mischa nodded.

They called a taxi home; they’d wandered multiple kilos from their flat and they were dead on their feet. This time the vehicle was large enough that they could spread out and Alex and Irina took the middle seat while Sascha and Mischa hurled themselves into the back. It was dark, dark, dark and traffic was heavy and they were in it for a decent haul. Mischa scooted forward and pressed his front up against the back of the middle seat and Sascha followed suit; they rested their chins on opposite arms so Sascha’s left and Mischa’s right dangled between them and they were thigh-to-thigh and then Mischa moved his hand deliberately over so his pinky rested over Sascha’s own, perched atop his knee. 

Sascha started, slightly. Very cautiously he turned his hand so it was palm up he and laced his fingers slow, slow, slow with Mischa’s own, slid them all the way down so they were locked. They glanced at each other; Mischa was trying and failing to contain a smile and Sascha’s face glowed in the dark. They were holding hands. Mischa felt giddy as a schoolgirl.

Sascha turned his head and his mouth pressed to Mischa’s ear.

“Sneaky bastard.”

Mischa looked at him, mouthed, “you love it,” and Sascha knocked him with his shoulder and put his head down on his arm and when he came up Mischa saw that he had been trying to conceal the sunshine beam that spread like an opening flag across his face. Mischa realized that this thought crossed his mind multiple times a day when he looked at Sascha, but he had never loved something so much as he did right then.

Conversation on the ride home, happily, was idle. Irina was looking at touristy things for them to do for the rest of the week on her phone and Alex was occupied watching the city out the window. Sascha and Mischa stayed locked like they were even when their palms started to sweat, nothing but heat between them, and when Mischa started stroking his thumb over the back of Sascha’s hand the younger rested his head sideways on his arm so he could watch the motion. Occasionally their eyes would meet and they would smile, mouths closed, eyes glittering.

When they reached the flat it was ten-thirty. Alex and Irina had been lulled by the cab ride and they retired almost immediately, leaving Sascha and Mischa with nothing but each other and the dull roar of the air conditioner and their booming, escalating thoughts. Mischa’s heart was beating so violently he was positive it was going to cannonball out of his chest; he felt like a living cliché. When he looked at Sascha he knew he was feeling the same way.

Their eyes met. Sascha swallowed tensely.

“Come to the balcony with me,” said Mischa gently, and Sascha nodded, trailed him through their bedroom to the open space outside, where the city still blazed like a wildfire. It was stunning.

“My favorite city,” said Mischa, and Sascha smiled.

“Better than Kaliningrad?”

“And Dubrovnik,” said Mischa, “but just slightly. It’s different, you know? I’ve always felt at home here. Not just because I love the clay. It’s something else.”

“I know. It’s so busy all the time but it just feels calm. Like we have nowhere to be, even when we do.” 

“Exactly.” Mischa tested the railing against his weight, found it stable. “Time feels different here.” 

“Alright, deep science,” said Sascha, but he was smiling. “I know what you mean, though. I feel like I check my watch half as much.”

“Same.” Mischa smirked. “I can’t believe Mum and Dad went to bed already. Dad was wired.”

“That cab ride was about a hundred years long, so he had time to come down,” said Sascha. “I mean, not that I’m complaining.”

He knocked Mischa’s hip with his own, gently.

“No?” Mischa looked over at him, pushed his toes hard under the railing to stop himself shaking. “No complaints?”

“None,” said Sascha quietly.

They looked at each other, steady, both crooking their forearms on the ledge, feet planted. Neither moved; both were apprehensive now that there was nothing but each other and the night. If they advanced further than they had already gone then it was real, not an illusion, not something they could deny or negate or dismiss.

“I thought we’d never ditch them,” said Mischa at last.

“I know,” burst Sascha. “Lenglen was awesome, and exploring is always great...” 

“Except you hated the catacombs.” 

“Except I hated the catacombs. I mean, other than practically inviting an army of dead guys home with us, I had a great time, but.” Sascha bit his lip.

“But?”

“I had some other ideas for the day,” said Sascha shiftily.

Mischa smiled, barely perceptible in the dark. “Uh huh, I did too.”

“I figured.” Sascha’s eyes swept the city. “Is it safe here?”

Mischa looked around, saw no one on the surrounding balconies, no pedestrians wandering the streets directly below them. They were at an advantage: their parents’ balcony faced the other direction, and they were on a very relaxed side street boasting little liveliness. Not a soul could bear witness to whatever they decided to do right now. He looked back at Sascha, who was watching him with urgency.

“Right now it is.” Mischa tucked his forefinger under Sascha’s chin, put his thumb in the center. “But is it really safe for us anywhere?”

“Do you care?” 

“Do you?”

Sascha breathed out. “No. I should care more. I feel like I could get reckless.”

“I know,” said Mischa. “I was thinking that today, when we were signing for those people. I didn’t know them from Adam, but they recognized us right away. If that’s the case now, where can we hide in the future?” 

“I don’t know,” said Sascha, shaking his head. “I don’t want people to know us. I want to be able to go somewhere and hold your hand and not be recognized as brothers. Like, obviously we can never be like this around Mum and dad. But I was just thinking how sweet it would be to go on vacation and just like...not have to worry about it.”

Mischa watched his expressive face, the multitude of emotions. Sascha was an expert at concealing his mind when he needed to be but in front of Mischa he was not afraid to give everything away. He smiled, sadly.

“It’s not ideal,” he said. “Even if we weren’t professional tennis players, obviously, societal boundaries would murder us. But honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing or you’re doing or we’re doing, but I’m happy. I know this is the most fucked up thing and I’m a decade older than you and I should be discouraging this and be the responsible older brother, but I can’t.”

He shook his head.

“I’m not good at impulse control. And this...this isn’t even an impulse. It’s something that I’ve actually been trying to rationalize and ignore for a long time.”

Sascha exhaled, bobbed his head in an affirmative.

“Me too. Even though I was kind of egging you on.”

“Kind of?” Mischa raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, definitely egging you on,” said Sascha, laughing. “The point is I knew I shouldn’t have been doing what I was doing, but I wanted to anyway. You always say _you get that from me_. Well, I get the impulsivity from you, too.”

He blinked, looked Mischa straight in the face, fearless.

“When you walked in on me that first time, I knew what I was doing. I wanted you to catch me.”

Mischa nodded.

“I think I kind of knew that.”

“Yeah.” Sascha swallowed. “Then when I found you, you didn’t freak out and scream ‘get out’ or anything, so.”

“You’re so like me, Sash,” said Mischa, laughing, looking out at the city. “In so many ways. You think I didn’t want exactly that? I left the door unlocked for a reason.”

Sascha smiled, all subdued jubilation. “I thought so.”

“Uh huh. Neither of us is quite as opaque as we’d like to believe, I think.” Mischa tipped his head to the side. “I just didn’t think you’d actually want to – ”

“What? Do anything about it?”

“Yeah.”

Sascha leered. “Understandable. I am your kid brother, after all.”

“You are,” agreed Mischa. “But you’re a lot of other things, too.” 

They were close, close, close. Sascha’s breath was Mischa’s; Mischa’s breath was Sascha’s. Around them the air screamed with their intensity, their lightning. Sascha said on a hush, “What am I, Mischa?” 

Mischa touched his cross, gleaming at Sascha’s throat. Sascha’s pulse was roaring. He smiled. 

“Right now I think you’re nervous.”

“ _Po'shyol na hui_ , so are you,” said Sascha, and he kissed him.

Mischa tipped his head back, steadied himself, because no matter how much he’d thought and dreamed and fantasized about it the actual feeling of Sascha’s mouth on his own was not something he could with no prior experience conjure mentally. Sascha’s skin was warm and damp and he tasted faintly like the sweets he’d just consumed, like mild tangy fear, like culmination of tension. The night had ceased to move and sing; it was just them and the howling in their ears and their lips together and Mischa thought, _finally_.

When they broke contact for air Sascha rested his forehead against Mischa’s and gave a warbling laugh; Mischa chuckled with him, relieved, ecstatic.

Sascha said, “I hope you don’t have plans to sleep tonight.”

“I don’t,” said Mischa, and he bulled further forward into Sascha’s space and fisted his hands in his brother’s shirt and pulled him in for a proper kiss, mouths open this time, no secrets. Sascha leaned into him and breathed out hard through his nose, hands coming up to splay over Mischa’s shoulderblades, and then it was all sharp clacking teeth and sensuous noise and blind frenzy. Mischa slid his tongue into the space between his brother’s upper lip and his front teeth and when Sash moaned for him he unspooled like a loose ribbon.

“Saaaaaaaash,” he murmured, against Sascha’s open mouth. 

“What,” gasped Sascha, but he knew.

“You’ll murder me with that noise.”

“That’s the point,” said Sascha, and Mischa gripped his hair and pulled his head down and pressed their lips hard together again. Marginally, just to torment, Sascha withdrew and licked into Mischa’s mouth, and this time it was Mischa who groaned out loud. 

“Fuck,” he said, fisting against Sascha’s chest, head down so the younger nuzzled desperately into his hair. “Fuck, Sash.”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, “yeah, I know.” He made to kiss Mischa again and for a moment Mischa indulged him, indulged himself, drinking Sascha’s mouth like wine, rubbing his crotch into Sascha’s own. They were both achingly hard, insistent. 

“I feel like,” gasped Mischa, after a breathless wanton moment of this. “Maybe we should go slow.”

Sascha groaned again, this time from vexation. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“You know why,” said Mischa, but he was still pressing his cock into Sascha’s pelvis and he was blurry-sighted for need. “I’ve already corrupted you enough.”

“You have not corrupted me enough by half,” said Sascha. He slid one hand up the back of Mischa’s shirt, dragged his nails down fevered skin. “You’ve barely started.”

“You said you’d let me do anything to you,” said Mischa, out of his mind. His hands were rambling up and down either side of Sascha’s sharp ribcage, mindless, needing more of him.

“Anything.” Fervently.

“Well we can’t do it all in one night,” said Mischa, soft. He kissed Sascha’s swollen mouth, slow, slow, tender. “Even though God knows I want to.”

“I can tell,” said Sascha meaningfully, and Mischa laughed out loud.

“You say as you’re drilling a hole in my thigh.”

Sascha shrugged. His fingers crept avidly along Mischa’s spine, searching him. “Honestly, as pathetic as this is, I’ve been needing this so hard for so long I could probably cum just by grinding against you like this.”

Mischa liked that he said _needing_ not _wanting_ and he bit his lip against the surge of blood that crashed into his nether regions. “When I was sixteen it took like four strokes. Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve actually gotten my dick wet before and I probably could, too.”

Sascha scrunched his nose, laughed. “Mischaaaaaa.”

“What?” Mischa shook his head, chucked Sascha’s nose playfully. “You’re humping my leg and making out with me and that’s what you choose to let offend you?”

“Not offended,” said Sascha lightly.

“Oh,” said Mischa, reading his face. “OH. Jealous?”

“Maybe.” Sascha arched an eyebrow, smirked. “I told you I was territorial.”

Mischa had to table that thought for the time being because he was pretty sure Sascha was telling him that he was envious of the people Mischa had had sex with and if that meant what Mischa thought it did he actually was going to lose it, right here, right now. 

_I would let you do anything to me._

“Don’t be,” said Mischa dismissively. “You’re the only person I’ve ever jerked off with, or that I’ve let watch me jerk off, and I think that’s the most intimate thing people can do. That’s vulnerability.”

“I think you’re right.” Sasha carded his fingers through Mischa’s hair, pushed it out of his eyes. “It’s weird, though. Like, we do everything together, but it feels like I’m learning you in a different way.”

“You are,” said Mischa. “It’s the same for me. I know you, but I don’t know you like this.”

“Oh, you’re learning,” said Sascha, smiling. “You’re at an advantage because I’m pretty new to all of this stuff.” 

“Which makes me even more fucked up,” said Mischa, half joking, but his voice was laced with that rueful edge and Sascha looked at him, big-eyed.

“Hey,” he said. “Never forget for a second that I want this. You’ve checked with me multiple times to make sure I’m okay. You’re doing what you’re supposed to. I came on to YOU.”

Mischa laughed. “I’m doing what I’m supposed to?”

“You know what I mean,” said Sascha dismissively. “I get it. But I swear to God, Meesh. I don’t know why but you’ve always made the most sense to me, out of everything.” 

“I know,” said Mischa. “It’s the same for me with you.”

“Then quit doubting yourself.”

Mischa looked away, looked back. “You’d do the same if you were me.”

“I’ve already endured a period of self doubt about how I feel about you,” said Sascha. “Stop thinking that you’re fucking up your role as my protector, or whatever. You said yourself that I’m a big boy.”

At this they both paused to grin. Mischa said reflectively, “You’ve always been an old soul.”

“Physically sixteen, mentally sixty,” recited Sascha, a line that their father always teased when he wanted to rib him. “Anyway. You have to trust that I’ll tell you if there’s something I can’t handle. Which, by the way, won’t happen.”

“I can’t believe we’re talking about this,” said Mischa, with not a little incredulity. “Yesterday I was scared to address it at all.”

“I know you were. But I knew you weren’t going to, so I did it for you.” Sascha rubbed his forehead across Mischa’s own. “You really are shit at talking about hard stuff.”

“Depends what kind of hard,” said Mischa, and he got his knee up in the fork of Sascha’s legs, tested him, curious. Sascha gave that helpless _mmmmm_ and Mischa smiled.

“But you want to take it slow,” said Sascha, derisive.

“I never said at a snail’s pace.”

“Feel like we’ve already broken your rules just from last night,” said Sascha. Against his crotch Mischa shifted his leg and he hissed.

“Probably so,” said Mischa, pinning him gently back to the railing. “But today is a new day.”

Sascha leaned in, licked boldly under Mischa’s upper lip, his lower; scraped over his front teeth. He let his hands slide down so he could hold Mischa’s hips, stole that signature move of hooking thumbs into waistband; when his fingernails dragged hot skin Mischa stilled. 

“You like that,” murmured Sascha against Mischa’s lips.

“Yes,” said Mischa, all rust-slashed voice and hazy eyes, and he squeezed gently at the scruff of Sascha’s neck and crowded their hips together and then they were kissing again. This time it was slow, sensuous; explorative tongues and flush torsos. Heat. Mischa had his hands cupped at the back of Sascha’s neck and it was astonishing to him how Sascha could kiss, devastating, meltingly sexual with his little groans, steel-hard against Mischa’s thigh

For a long time they simply stayed like that, tasting each other over and over, Sascha’s long porcelain fingers ribboned in Mischa’s hair. Blood pounding, hearts causing a symphony of ruckus, pressed together like contact was air as they learned one another. Eventually Sascha pulled back just to replenish his oxygen supply and when their eyes met they both smiled sheepishly.

“I could kiss you all night,” said Sascha.

“I’d let you,” said Mischa, and Sascha smiled. “You’re really good at this.”

“So are you.” Sascha’s face was lit, all the way up like a megawatt bulb. “Jesus, we’re disgusting. Like actually thank God we can’t PDA because I’d legit be trying to swallow your face in public.”

Mischa laughed out loud, pushed back from him just slightly to look in his face. “I can definitely see that.”

“Yeah, don’t think that would go over too well with Mum and Dad.” Sascha couldn’t stop grinning. “I mean, I dunno.”

“If we keep doing what we’re doing I don’t think they’re ever going to suspect,” said Mischa fairly. “We’ve been all over each other since you were born. Nothing unusual.” 

Sascha lifted Mischa’s shirt at the edges so he could run his thumbs along the blunted ridges of Mischa’s hips.

“Do you remember when you left for that tournament in Krakow and I was about to start school and Mum wouldn’t let me go with you?”

“Yes,” said Mischa. “You were so little. So little, and so sad.”

“I cried all day after you left on the train,” said Sascha, smiling. “I missed you so much. I think you made it to the semis, too, so you were gone all week.” 

“And I’d call you every night so you could tell me about tennis and school,” said Mischa, “and when we’d get ready to hang up I’d hear your little voice start sounding more and more depressed.”

“I’d never been away from you before,” said Sascha. “I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“I didn’t like it either,” said Mischa. “I missed hearing you in the crowd. And I knew how miserable you were back at home and I could never stand knowing that.”

“It’s still like that,” said Sascha. “I still hate being away from you. Like, I don’t cry myself to sleep at night. But it sucks.” 

“I always miss you when we’re not in the same place,” said Mischa, “always. It never gets easier. I think it’s just going to be like that with us.”

Sascha’s thumbs were kneading at Mischa’s hips, background noise that kept increasing in Mischa’s forefront.

“We have to win here,” said Sascha. “As much as we can. Because after this...”

“Shush,” said Mischa. “Don’t look too far ahead, Sash. We haven’t even started.”

He silenced a halfhearted rebuttal by closing his mouth over Sascha’s own, steadying him, a slow kiss that lingered.

“I’m proud of you,” said Sascha against Mischa’s lips.

“For what?”

“Talking about hard things.”

Mischa smiled.

“I just wanted to verbalize in case pinning you against the railing wasn’t enough of a confirmation.”

“As you know,” said Sascha, grinning, “I am fond of details.”

“You picked a difficult one in me, then,” said Mischa. He slipped his hands up both sides of Sascha’s shirt, rucking the hems, fingers closing around Sascha’s narrow waist.

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Sascha. He wrapped his hands around Mischa’s wrists, glanced down to where Mischa was gripping his hips. “You’re very expressive in lots of ways.”

“I try to be.” Mischa kissed the side of Sascha’s cheek. “Sash, the moon is so high.”

Sascha turned his head to look; when he swiveled back around his eyes were silver, mesmerized. “How long have we been out here?”

Reaching down for Sascha’s wrist to check, Mischa whistled, a high sharp sound against the tranquil night. “Fuck, it’s midnight.”

“It is not.”

Mischa flashed him his watch face. “It’s been an hour and a half.”

“Mmmmph.” Sascha shook his unruly head in disbelief. “We should be responsible professionals and go to bed.”

“We can go to bed,” agreed Mischa. “I don’t know how much sleeping is going to be happening, but we can go to bed.”

He trailed his forefinger across Sascha’s lower belly, smiled for the tremor that riled his skin. Sascha gave that _mmm_ , the one that tore shreds in Mischa’s reinforcements.

“I think you’re learning to tease.” 

“I have a good teacher.” Mischa shrugged. “Come on.”

Once more under the paper moon they kissed, heavily; Sascha let his head drop back and Mischa brushed his lips over the tender skin at his throat and then they were wandering back indoors, fingers ribboned loosely together, satisfied but not satiated. They’d left only the bathroom light to blaze and as such they re-entered to dimness.

“We should set an alarm,” said Sascha, as they were preparing for bed in the bathroom. “Set an alarm, and lock the door.”

“Yeah?” Mischa watched him in the mirror, amused, yanking his shirt over his dark head. “You want to?”

“Yes,” said Sascha with conviction. “I’m still thinking about all those dead people. Obviously I’m way too fragile to sleep in my own bed.”

He beamed cheekily. Mischa twirled his shirt up tight and smacked his ass lightly with the end; Sascha’s mouth dropped in mock indignation as Mischa laughed at him.

“Fuck off, you dragged me down there.”

“You fuck off,” said Mischa, throwing his shirt to the side. “As long as it’s into my bed. I’ll turn the covers down for you, princess.”

He turned to walk out of the room; quick as a snake strike Sascha grabbed him by the back of his shorts and reeled him back in and Mischa felt his blood vibrate with thrill. Sascha had yanked him back with such force that his side was flush with Sascha’s torso and he had not yet removed his shirt but Mischa could feel how warm his skin was through the thin material. 

“Who are you calling a princess?” Sascha demanded, and his eyes were laughing. “Are you aware of how many on-court tantrums I have witnessed from you, señor? How many racquets have you smashed?”

“A few,” said Mischa, raising one shoulder and dropping it again, obsessed with Sascha’s sass. “Dad made me pay for all of them back in the day.”

“I remember,” said Sascha, “and mum always told me if i ever acted like you during your worst matches that she would smack me six ways to Sunday.”

Mischa was chuckling. “Well, she never had to. You never did.”

“My point,” said Sascha loudly, “is that you’re the diva in this family, not me.” 

“You’re not wrong,” said Mischa, “but you’re the _angsthase_.” Scaredy cat.

“Whatever. More excuse to invade your bed.” Sascha pushed him back, smirking. “You may proceed.”

“I think we can safely establish that you have an open invitation to invade my bed,” said Mischa smoothly, as he sauntered through the doorway.

“Hot,” said Sascha bluntly, and he was rewarded by Mischa’s tolling laugh from the other room.

“I know.”

Sascha stripped his shirt in front of the mirror, examined himself critically, adjusted Mischa’s cross against the hollow between his sharp collarbones. When he emerged into the bedroom Mischa was sprawled on his stomach in bed, checking the weather on his phone, and Sascha stood leaning on the doorframe observing the lines and angles in his shoulders, his back.

Mischa said obliviously, “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“Really,” said Sascha, arms crossed, smirking. Mischa looked up at his tone and immediately smiled, spotlighted.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sascha shrugged one bird-boned shoulder, mercurial smile gamboling around his mouth. “You don’t want it to rain?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Mischa. “We’ll have to go indoor, though.”

“Or take a day off,” suggested Sascha helpfully.

“Wonder if dad would go for that.”

“Doubtful.” Sascha uncrossed his arms, pushed off from the doorway, loped over to Mischa’s bed. When he sat down the mattress protested marginally and they looked at each other, raised eyebrows, smirked. Sascha grazed his palm down the straight ladder of Mischa’s spine. “Squeaky bed.”

“Better do it on the floor, then,” said Mischa snarkily, and Sascha gave a sharp shocked yelp of a laugh.

“Do what on the floor?”

A brief vivid snapshot of Sascha straddling Mischa’s waist, eyes closed mouth open rolling his hips, invaded Mischa’s mind. Out loud he said, “sleep, duh. Get your mind out of the gutter, Sash.” 

He raised up on his elbows, pressed his open palm gently to the level plane of Sascha’s stomach. Sascha’s breath glitched.

“Sleep, huh.” 

“And other things. God, you’re warm.”

Sascha put his hand over Mischa’s to keep it there, fell back so he was flat on his spine on the bed, breathed forcefully out. “Wonder why.”

“Mmm.” Mischa flipped to his back so he could look over if he wanted, see Sascha’s face. 

“Maybe because I've been grinding on you for almost two hours? No idea.” Sascha smirked. “Also. I owe you another song. I think you’ve behaved sufficiently.” 

Mischa liked that he didn’t say _you’ve been good_ because they hadn’t been. “Yes please.”

Sascha sat up, grabbed his phone from where he’d tossed it on top of his (still mostly unpacked) suitcase. The quick motion caused Mischa’s hand to fall precariously to his waistband and Sascha halted his fiddling, looked up. Their eyes joined and again Sascha placed his free hand upon Mischa’s own, roped their fingers together, holding him in place. 

“You don’t need headphones for this one,” said Sascha.

“No headphones? Not as intense?”

“It’s not really the music so much as the lyrics,” said Sascha patiently. “This one I heard about six months ago and it stopped me in my tracks.”

“I’m interested,” said Mischa.

So Sascha lay back and pressed play.

Mischa stayed flat on his back and shut his eyes so he could block the world out, Sascha’s fingers braided in his own, just breathing. From the third line of verse he understood why Sascha had been bulldozed by the correlation to them: _you want to taste and see and drink from my cup_.

“Yes, Sash,” he breathed, and Sascha said, “I know. Just wait.”

So Mischa waited, and he was rewarded. By the time the first chorus was through ( _speak in tongues till you listen and sin_ ), he was sitting up, shaking his head, chuckling darkly.

“Do I know you or do I know you,” said Sascha without a hint of a question mark when the music had ceased. 

“You know me, and I keep learning more and more of you,” said Mischa, and he leaned down and kissed Sascha leisurely on the mouth, licked inside of him, hungry. He felt like he could never be satiated and his stomach was wrought with arousal.

“I’ve been speaking in metaphorical tongues with you for almost two years,” said Sascha between kisses, arching up for Mischa’s mouth, wanton. “And I’ve had to learn to speak your body language, because that’s how I read between your lines.” 

“And have you become fluent?”

“I have,” said Sascha, low, licking Mischa’s tongue when he stuck it out slightly. “And it’s like I said before- I’ve learned to speak back to you, with music.”

“I think you’re teaching me how to listen,” said Mischa, and Sascha smiled for that.

“You’re not bad at listening.”

“I want to know everything you have to say,” said Mischa, earnestly. “Everything.”

“You, too,” said Sascha. “It was killing me, trying to guess what you’re thinking."

“It’s hard when you want to be obvious but you can’t, you know?” Mischa stroked Sascha’s hair from his pale jade eyes. “I’ve been fucking with this for a long time. Logic was trying to override emotion.” 

Sascha laughed at his word choice. “I’ve been, uh. Fucking with this for a long time, too.”

“Shut up. You know what i mean.” Mischa slid his palm up Sascha’s chest, long fingers searching his cross, the base of his throat. Sascha gave an audible sigh and Mischa sighted desperation in his eyes. Gently he said:

“Give it time, _solnyshka_.”

“I’m trying,” said Sascha. He rolled up so he was sitting, leaned down and pressed his open mouth to the fissure between Mischa’s shoulder and throat. Mischa felt the shy wetness of tongue and heard the moist velvety noise of Sascha’s lips connecting to his skin and shuddered. “Instant gratification is kind of my thing.”

“Mine, too,” said Mischa, watching him mouth his way across the expanse of skin to the metal hanging from Mischa’s neck. Habitually he arched his back and sascha ran his hot tongue from the base of his throat to his chin, little stripe of flame. “God, Sash."

“Yeah,” breathed Sascha in his ear, flicking his tongue into the shell, big hand on Mischa’s jutting hipbone. Pressing down. “What do you think about, Mischa?”

Mischa knew what he was asking. “What do YOU think about?”

“I asked first.” Sascha kissed him, heavily. Mischa tasted the underside of his brother’s upper lip and Sascha moaned for that, drove harder into Mischa’s hip.

“I think you probably know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Do you?” Mischa skated fingers along the length of Sascha’s inner thigh, slipped a probing hand up the leg of his shorts, paused when he’d reached dangerous territory. Sascha was immobilized, eyes sniper-locked to where Mischa’s wrist disappeared into the cloth. He croaked:

“Yes.”

“Lately I think about this,” said Mischa, cautiously. “I used to think about what it would be like to kiss you and lay up against you and have your hands all over me. I think about watching you in the bathroom. My cross in your mouth. The way you’d look on your knees for me. That sort of thing.”

So casual was he about that last line, and so preoccupied was Sascha with the location of Mischa’s hand, that Sascha almost didn’t catch his meaning. When he understood what was being said to him his head whipped up and he found Mischa’s disobedient eyes, assessed his face; the grin that developed slow across Mischa’s face was absolutely vulturine. He said innocently, 

“And you?”

Sascha gaped at him.

“How I’d look on my-“

“Your knees for me, yes,” said Mischa, brashly. “Honestly, I’ve thought about all kinds of things, Sash.”

Sascha wanted to press but he couldn’t without compromising the ever-wavering hold he kept on his composure so he fell back, breathed, his astonished eyes giving him away. If he was truthful with himself he’d thought of that too, from both sides, the way Mischa might taste, how it might feel for him to press Sascha’s hips into the bed in order to force him not to thrust when he swallowed Sascha’s cock whole. Just to keep himself sane, and for fear of rubbing himself friction-raw with necessary frequency, sascha tried to spend as little time as humanly possible thinking about this. He said out loud, because he knew Mischa was reading the thoughts that sprinted unchecked behind his eyes,

“Yeah, I’ve thought of some things, too.”

Mischa watched him, smirking, and nodded, his fingers hot on Sascha’s inner thigh.

“Have you.” With unprecedented assurance.

“Yes. I've been for a while now.” Sascha shook his head. “Like, it’s really not a coincidence that I’ve been insanely horny for the past few weeks. You - exacerbate things for me.”

“Mm. Good word.” Mischa tilted his russet head to the side. “I’ve said this, but you climbing on top of me in the hot tub, Jesus God. I wanted to kiss you right there.”

“You should have,” said Sascha. “I thought you were going to before Mum called. That’s what I thought about when I got off that night. I’m not kidding when I say something small like that is enough to make me lose my shit.”

“I’m the same way,” said Mischa. “You drive me fucking insane.”

Sascha grinned. “Well, it’s good to know I’m not alone.”

“No, you have company.” Mischa withdrew his sneaking hand, raked it through Sascha’s curls where they framed his eyes. “When you’re near me my body just knows.”

“Yes. It’s like my nerves are reaching for you. I want to touch you all the time.” Sascha put his forehead to Mischa’s, kissed him with an open mouth, sighed. “I know that we should take it slow, but I’ve had to get off multiple times just from being too close to you without being able to touch you and we’ve been making out all night. All I want to do is fuck around. You know?”

Mischa to calm the answering fury of his heartbeat said, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“It’s frequently used terminology, yes.” 

“I want the same thing, Sash,” said Mischa, glancing down at himself, the straining bulge in his gym shorts. Their eyes met and Sascha bridged one eyebrow suggestively, interested. “I mean, obviously. But jumping in headfirst three days before the French Open might not be the wisest move to make, especially because Mum scored us a doubles wildcard.”

“Mm. Didn’t think about that.” Sascha sighed, again. “I know. I honestly didn’t think about any of that when we were on the bridge, when I told you. But I was going to lose it if I kept it from you any longer.”

“No. I’m glad you told me.” Mischa kissed Sascha’s forehead. “I mean, I already knew. But it was time for one of us to say it out loud.”

“Good thing I’m brave,” said Sascha, grinning.

“Good thing. Otherwise we might be in separate beds pining right now.”

“Yeah, no.” Sascha rubbed his hand across Mischa’s belly. “All right. You get settled in singles and we’ll get settled in doubles and we’ll just see where the week takes us.”

“I think we can do that.” Mischa crawled up to turn the covers down, pulled sascha up with him so they could climb underneath. Before he settled he reached back to switch off the lamp; when he inched back down he tossed his thigh over Sascha’s hips and Sascha was only too happy to press flush against him. Mischa was still hard and Sascha couldn’t help but ruck his hips against him, give his cock the friction it was screaming for. 

Mischa _mmm_ ed, shifted.

“You talk about me exacerbating things for you.”

“You do.” Sascha dragged his fingernails lightly up Mischa’s back, thrilled when he shivered. “You feel so fucking good, Meesh.”

Mischa knew what he was referring to. “You do too.” He clamped a hand around Sascha’s slender waist, pinned him down so he could grind his crotch slow and deliberate over Sascha’s own, just once, just for the feeling. It was so good he had to bite back a moan.

Sascha whined.

“Mischa.”

“I know.” Mischa released him, took a breath. “It’s just that now I can touch you, so I want to.”

“You already know where I stand on that,” said Sascha, amused, and Mischa smiled.

 _I would let you do anything to me_.

For a good while they lay together exploring each other’s mouths, fingers mapping skin and bone and sinew, both knowing to remain in neutral area, although nothing at this point was neutral. Every minuscule touch on every inch of skin set them on uncontrollable fire. At last Mischa drew back, stroked Sascha’s axblade jawline, warm everywhere from the adoration in his cucumber eyes.

“Sascha, we have to take a break. I’m dying.”

“Me too.” Sascha was aware that the front of his boxers was soaked with precome and he was grateful for the extra layer of protection that gym shorts afforded him. His eyes fell on the bedstand clock, violent scarlet numbers accosting his night vision, and he whistled. “Fuck, Meesh, it’s one fifteen.”

Mischa swore.

“We need to sleep. We’ll be dead on our feet.”

“Imagine how much sleep we’ll lose when you let me take those shorts off,” said sascha nonchalantly, and Mischa choked on his own saliva.

“Sash, you have no idea.”

“I think i do,” said Sascha, quietly. “We’ll find out.”

“You’re going to end me.”

“You ended me when you looked into my eyes while you were blowing your load all over your hand,” said Sascha, with some satisfaction. “I’m yours.”

He kissed Mischa heavily on the lips, rolled onto his back, pressed fruitlessly down on his aching, leaking cock. Mischa felt the blankets shift and knew exactly what he was doing and his blood howled. He asked, “can you sleep?”

“If we stop,” said Sascha. “I think i can.” 

“I love you, Sash,” said Mischa, and Sascha rolled back to him and kissed him again, hard on the mouth.

“I love you,” he said, “more than anything. I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Mischa heard the unspoken sweetness: _because I’m waking up next to you_. He ran his hand down Sascha’s cheek and smiled. 

“Sleep well, _liebling_.”

And to Mischa’s astonishment they slept, both of them, exhausted from the hard work and the volatile emotions of the day. Neither moved until the alarm they’d set sang them awake around ten and when they opened their eyes despite their corruption the world felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post sooner - my birthday was this weekend so I was busy getting up to shenanigans ;) but it was time, it's been time, they need like a straight day of fucking around honestly. Patience is a virtue I suppose.
> 
> Anyone else watch our boys in Basel today? I was dying. So much inspiration.
> 
>  
> 
> [Sascha's next song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09fMLDTPr1w)


	6. Chapter 6

It appeared as though Mischa’s weather app had correctly predicted rain: the sky outside was a dull silver, clouds thick as butter. The air was currently dry but the scent of it when Sascha stepped onto the balcony was rich and earthy and he knew it was coming. 

Mischa padded up behind him, curled his arms around Sascha’s tiny waist, kissed the side of his neck. He let go before Sascha could even move, skittish, and Sascha made a noise of protest in the back of his throat.

“I unlocked the door,” said Mischa by way of explanation, “just in case.”

“Ah.” Sascha nodded. “Do you think they would just barge right in?”

“I think they would do what they always do,” said Mischa, “which is knock and then try the handle before anyone tells them to come in.”

Sascha grinned, shook his head. Their parents were amazing, two of the greatest people he knew, but they could be overeager and they sometimes forgot that their sons were in the prime sexual state of their lives and often needed thirty seconds before they could emerge from behind a closed door.

“Have we ever locked the door on them before?”

“A few times,” said Mischa. “But it’s probably best not to get into the habit in case they start overthinking things.”

“Agreed.” Habitually Sascha placed Mischa’s cross between his lips, sucked. “Can’t believe I slept.”

“Same.” Mischa yawned, leaned back on the railing, tilted his face to the opaque sky. “Thought I’d keep myself awake trying to figure out how not to be all over you today.”

Sascha flushed, pleased. “I guess call on the instincts that you were using to stop yourself before?” Around the cross his voice was distorted.

“That’s the plan.” Mischa righted himself, reoriented. “But you’ve got to stop sucking that cross.”

The grin that slid shiftily across Sascha’s face was fast as a demon and just as fiendish.

“You know you shouldn’t have told me that, right.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mischa watched the progress of Sascha’s tongue, curling around the long sharp end before letting the chain drop where it glistened against the smooth porcelain of his skin. “Maybe I don’t hate being teased.”

“Oh I know you don’t,” said Sascha impudently, cocksure. “You respond well to my efforts.”

Mischa laughed out loud. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re sixteen.”

“Well, I’ve been hanging out semi-exclusively with someone a decade older than me my whole life.” Sascha shrugged. “And Mum has a PHD in literature in an alternate universe, so.”

It was true; Mischa had no argument. Irina had started reading to her sons when they were newborns, transitioning them to higher and higher comprehension levels far before the average child; as such, Sascha and Mischa were fluent in three languages by five, reading thick novels meant for adults when they were in middle school. They were both highly intelligent and while Alex had given them athletic prowess and physical strength they had gleaned much of their scholarly wisdom from their mother. 

On the balcony they stood together, shoulder to shoulder, observing the city for a good fifteen minutes. When Mischa turned his head to look in Sascha’s eyes the air between them struck him whiplike, a crack of lightning, an awakening slap. He put his fingers around the scruff of Sascha’s neck and it was like a dare.

Sascha exhaled, glanced back inside the room, assessing. Their door remained closed. Down over the street his eyes swept; he took his bearings and calculated and in the end he pushed back from the railing, eyes locked to Mischa’s, luring him. Mischa followed him like a charmed snake, hungry, hypnotized, and Sascha backed himself up against the corner of the balcony, hands thrown up, hidden from streetview, just out of range of the sliding glass door. Mischa crowded him; he knew what Sascha wanted and he gave it to him, pinned his wrists back to the side of the building, intruded upon his space and kissed him openly on the mouth.

Sascha melted for him, submissive, needy, and Mischa shifted his hips, automatically raised one knee to test between Sascha’s thighs. For an instant Sascha allowed him to knead with his leg, low agitated groan burbling in his throat, and then he pushed Mischa back, black in the eyes, panting.

“Are you trying to end me?” 

“I would never,” said Mischa, all crafty false bewilderment. 

Sascha reached down to adjust himself; he was at such a heightened state of arousal that he bit his lip just for that minimal contact. His face was blush-rosy. “In two seconds Mum and Dad are gonna come skipping through that door and they’re gonna be like, ‘hey, breakfast time!’ And I’ll just be chilling over here with this massive boner like, ‘hey, hold on, let me just get this to go down’ so thanks.”

Mischa was laughing, genuinely; he loved when Sascha got sassy. “Valid point. I’ll leave you alone.” 

Sascha grabbed him, pressed his mouth to Mischa’s own, released him with heavy reluctance. “You know that I don’t want you to. If we were home...”

“I know,” said Mischa, and he framed Sascha’s face with his big warm hands, kissed him again. “This is ridiculous, Sash.” 

Sascha knew what he meant, how many mountains they’d scaled overnight, how many horizons they’d breached. “Yes.” He ran those curious fingers along the curve of Mischa’s collarbone. “Practice is going to be a joke.”

“No. It’ll be good. It’s the only way I’ve been getting out my frustration, honestly.” Mischa pulled at Sascha’s arm. “We have to get off this balcony or I’m going to start humping you again.” 

“MISCHA.” Sascha was laughing, the shock of youth in his reflective eyes, unprepared. Joking was the only way Mischa knew how to deal with the enormity of what was happening between them; Sascha loved that he was speaking about it at all. _I’m not good at talking about hard things_ , he’d said, but he was still finding ways to discuss them, even if it wasn’t in blunt open sentences like Sascha.

“Sash.” Mischa had half disappeared into the bedroom, all long lines and arched spine, stretching. “I’ll start a cold shower for you if you want.” 

“Start a hot one and we’ll talk.” Sascha unpeeled himself from the wall, hand still pressing hopelessly at his erection, mad for want. “When are we on? Noon?”

“Yeah, if it doesn’t rain.” Mischa popped into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, clean himself up, mask the pheromones that were surely radiating from his skin. “Dad will want us to do doubles drills.”

“Today?” Sascha poked his head in, having changed out of his sleep clothes in record time; he was in no mood to tease because he knew Mischa would take the bait and if they kept this up he saw with dreadful certainty that blue balls were in his future. “You think?”

Mischa looked at him in the mirror. “They’re his favorite. He’s been sitting on them.”

“God.” Sascha rolled his eyes; _ugh_ in the back of his throat. Alex was very relaxed off court but he could be quite militaristic during practice and he would often walk around with a stopwatch, stalking the lines while his sons drilled in exact ten-minute intervals, no breaks or they’d be doing laps. “Maybe I’ll be so worn out I won’t even be ABLE to hump you later.”

Mischa grinned. “Doubt it.”

“Same.” Sascha came to the sink, followed suit with Mischa’s idea of cold water to the face. “If it rains we’re doing museums all day. Fuck the catacombs.”

“And Mum wants gelato,” reminded Mischa. 

“Oh, true.” Sascha’s head whipped to the side; he’d heard movement outside of their door and knew company was imminent. “They’re coming.”

Again in the mirror their eyes met and Mischa clapped his hand on Sascha’s shoulder and set his mouth grimly and nodded. The first day of the rest of their lives was nigh.

Even though it felt like they’d never be able to fool a soul Mischa and Sascha successfully navigated their first post-makeout session interaction with Alex and Irina without raising a single red flag. In the whipping wind they all walked amicably together to the same cafe they’d gotten takeout from the morning before; got a table by the window so they could watch the pedestrians.

Halfway through breakfast it started to rain.

“What will we do?” Sascha, idly, as he sipped his coffee with his knee perched firmly against Mischa’s under the table.

“If it rains we’ll do weights and some indoor drills,” said Alex, watching the sky. “But it’s supposed to clear up. Maybe we’ll get you on.” 

“No Lenglen today,” said Sascha, and his voice was glum.

“Less attention today,” corrected Mischa, and Sascha smiled for that. They both liked to practice in relative peace; this was difficult to achieve at slams, but on the smaller courts during qualifying rounds it was doable.

“And we get a car,” said Irina, satisfied. “Only one more taxi.”

“Thank god,” said Sascha. “In charge of our own fate at last. With leg room.”

“With leg room,” agreed Mischa, grinning. It was barely eleven fifteen and already his face hurt from all the smiling he’d been doing. He stood up to throw his trash away and Sascha joined him at the counter under guise of adding more cream to his coffee. They watched each other from the edges of their eyes and Sascha said under his breath in that furious German-Russian mutt of a language,

“How long till we can go back to our room?”

“Too long.” Mischa plucked a stray wisp of hair from Sascha’s sleeve. “I actually need to hit. Weights won’t be enough.”

“I think you’re right,” said Sascha in Russian, without thinking, and at his arm Irina chirped, “right about what?” She had come to throw away her own trash.

“We’re going to get spoiled with the personal car,” said Mischa without even blinking. Irina smiled.

“Roland Garros always spoils us,” she said, fondly. “Even though the weather can be quite nasty.”

They were wending their way back to the table now; Sascha was trailing Mischa who was in back of Irina and he put his hand on Mischa’s shoulder and squeezed. “Clever,” in German, hissed in his ear. Mischa turned his head just slightly and threw that sly grin back at Sascha so he’d know that he’d been heard.

Again they took a taxi to the complex; again they were crammed in like sardines. Sascha had drawn the unfortunate straw of middle seat this time and he leaned over his legs and clamped his hand around Mischa’s calf, headphones in, eyes whited out for the music, religious experience. After a few moments of this Mischa grabbed an earbud from him and joined the cult, swells and billows in his head, and now he knew exactly where Sascha went when he let himself go like this. This noise was beauty and heat, storytelling, passionate. It was nothing Mischa had heard before but he was obsessed and he needed every open portal to his brother that he could get and he leaned over, pulled up the playlist on Sascha’s phone, sent it to himself. In his eyes there were words that he couldn’t speak aloud and sascha watched his perfect mouth and shuddered for the thought of tasting him again. Suddenly the car was too small. When he felt his phone buzz he knew without even a preliminary glance that it was Mischa _,_ and he was right. He opened their thread and words in Russian and German cascaded across his eyes and he was debased.

_(your music fucks me up)_

Sascha leaned back casual, like it was nothing, but he was vibrating from the inside out. With his phone tilted up to his face so their mother couldn’t see he replied,

_[You fuck me up.]_

Next to him Mischa’s blood was singing without words, glorious, vindicated, all a mess. Sascha felt like stars and galaxies and when Mischa texted him back he was effectively destroyed.

_If you let me I will._

*

The clay was red, red, red and their hearts were full of lightning and there was nothing between them but a net and a ball because miraculously it had stopped raining. Above them mercurial clouds roiled and raged, threatening, but they paid them no mind. A storm was only a tiny thing to survive. 

Mischa had been wrong, Alex did not demand doubles drills from them; instead he called for another practice set. They were both keyed up beyond reason and the tension was high as the sky, both of them wanting, wanting, wanting, more than just an inconsequential win. To compete against his object of lust was the most intense feeling that Mischa had ever experienced and he found himself lower to the ground than he’d ever been, moving graceful as a swan, sighting the ball at fifty times its size. Sascha was within the same plane of existence and every point they played was tight, tight, tight. Sascha was serving monstrously and with each smack of the ball he was making noise and his low little groans were driving Mischa mental. At 2-3 sascha, on serve, they stood together at the net drinking water and electrolytes and Mischa said to him confidently,

“Give me everything, Sash.”

Sascha took Mischa to heart, so he took him to a tiebreak. Mischa won 7-6 (8-6) and it was the closest set they’d ever played. So intense was the atmosphere, and so high quality were the points, that another little crowd did indeed gather to observe, although the boys in their own little universe paid them no mind. Once again both Irina and Alex were extremely satisfied with their level of play and Mischa was too because Sascha had played beautifully and it was astonishing how hard he could hit the ball when his form lined up. He might have been sinew and bone but his shots were textbook and it was beautiful to watch him explode into the court, confidence pouring all over him, radiant.

“Everything looks gorgeous. Both of you,” Irina said when her sons collapsed together on the sidelines, dirty with clay and sweat, spent. Mischa was thrumming from his victory but Sascha was just as intense, frustrated from lack of fruition, so close.

“Tomorrow we’ll drill doubles,” said Alex, satisfied, and the boys looked at each other significantly. “Today we can be done.”

On their way to the locker rooms, in the underbelly of the stadium tunnel with their bags slung over their shoulders and everything hanging furiously over their heads, Mischa said quietly, “you’re better than me. I can’t wait to see what you do.” 

Sascha stopped, looked at him, pulled him back so they were walking in stride.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” said Mischa, and he was earnest. “It’s okay, Sash.”

“Mischa, I,” said Sascha, and he ducked his head. “Shut up. I’m not. Come on.”

He was wrong. Mischa had always known that one day Sascha would surpass him. It might not be then; it might not be in a year. But Sascha had the makings of a legend and Mischa had seen it in him since he was merely a child.

In the crowded locker room they procured showers next to each other, at the very end of the aisle. The walls between them were thick but when Sascha emerged it was only in track shorts, diamonds of water dripping from the ends of his damp hair down his hot skin. Mischa took one look at him and knew that he had made a calculated move: he wanted Mischa to look at him, wanted to elicit Mischa’s lust.

It worked; of course it worked. When Mischa moved past him to get to the sink he put his hands low on Sascha’s waist to inch him out of the way and squeezed his hipbones and Sascha gave a pleased little squeak. In the mirror their eyes met; Mischa smirked. Sascha smirked back at him and the understanding that passed between them was infinite and Mischa couldn’t stop his eyes from roving. Sascha watched him watching, the force of his gaze soaking into him like sun-heat. Needful.

*

Per Sascha’s wishes the rest of the day was art and museums and more coffee, punctuated by intermittent periods of rain and sweltering heat. Halfway through the afternoon they stopped for gelato and their timing was impeccable because the second they stepped inside the tiny building relentless torrents of rain returned. They’d left the car at the stadium, less than a quarter of a mile away, and watching the sky cry tears of clear gray Alex and Irina decided that they were sick of the finicky weather and would return to the flat for the afternoon to escape the onslaught. After careful deliberation both Sascha and Mischa voted to join them and Mischa drove them back through the city, Sascha in the passenger seat bouncing with unspent energy, watchful. Waiting.

As expected Sash dictated the music and Mischa was still familiarizing himself with his tastes but he immediately understood that Sascha was speaking to him in a way that he’d been unable to all day. There was nothing cliché about the manner in which Sascha communicated through music: Mischa had to pay attention to all aspects of each song, including the title, in order to understand what message he was trying to convey. Traffic was brutal so Sascha had time to go deep with it and he played a song with the most enchanting vocals ( _i see the lightning in this place where we are, i feel the energy_ and Mischa hiked his eyebrows without meaning to, Sascha smirking pleased with himself in the background of his vision); a saucy swaggering English rap entitled _I Need_ ; Patti Smith’s _Because the Night_. While Mischa was still leaning on his arm on the windowsill with his knuckles pressed against his knowing contagious smile Sascha put on Mischa’s favorite Russian rapper and they both snarled their way flawlessly through the song, Alex in the back laughing uproariously for the raunchy lyrics while Irina shook her head at them all. 

By the time they made it safely back to the flat the streets were dotted with deep puddles and more or less deserted. On the surface it seemed a day created for books and tea by a rain-stained windowpane and sure enough well into the afternoon the deluge continued, so they all lounged lazily in the common room reading, lulled by the soft pitter of the rain. Sascha had moved on from Harry Potter and was stomach-down on the floor experiencing his mother’s nearly ruined copy of _Lolita_ for the first time; Mischa, who was partially responsible for the physical wearing down of Irina’s Nabokov library, had chosen to submerge himself in the world of _Dune._ Total immersion was next to impossible for how often he kept checking Sascha for his reactions, one of his thin coltish legs kicked up, reading glasses perched at the center of his impassive face. The only indicator that he might have been affected at all was the hand at his mouth, teeth wrecking the skin around his thumbnail bloody, magnificent in his concentration.

Once or twice he looked up, caught Mischa staring, and the smile in his eyes was both shy and self-aware. He understood that Mischa was well-versed in Nabokovian prose and he understood that his reading choice would be a talking point later because one wrong thing called to another, like attracting like. Controversy. Within the pages there were notes - some in his mother’s graceful flowery cursive, others in Mischa’s sharp-edged Russian, the language he preferred to write in. Sascha was obsessed; obsessed with the fact that Mischa hadn’t bothered to buy his own copy but wanted to add to the family analysis of the novel, that he’d had a strong enough reaction to the words that he’d needed to record his thoughts about them. Most people were never permitted to dive into Mischa’s depth; he was guarded about himself, but Sascha had spent long nights up with him discussing novels they had read and art that spoke to them both - often in different ways - and Mischa was one of the most intelligent people sascha knew. He had an opinion on everything and he saw much more than he’d ever confess to seeing and this integral part of him was the overwhelming reason why Sascha had chosen to express his interest the way that he had. He’d known that Mischa would pick up on his intimations and translate them with accuracy.

After forty-five solid minutes of mild distraction Mischa repositioned himself so he was facing the opposite way from Sascha on the couch. If he kept up looking at him like this he’d get nothing done and since there was no way for them to really escape at the moment he figured he’d do his best to refocus on something constructive. On the chairs at either side of him Alex and Irina both stayed lost in their own fictional worlds, oblivious. 

And thus the slate afternoon passed into charcoal evening. Around seven Sascha rolled to his back and moaned that he was hungry; Alex concurred and Irina marked her place and looked around at them.

“There’s a little market next door,” she said. “We could cook.”

“Yes,” said Mischa immediately. “I want spaghetti and garlic bread.”

“Meatballs,” said Sascha.

“Wine,” finished Alex, and the plan was set. As a family - _how cute_ , thought Mischa wryly, as they donned their rain jackets and stood in the hall grinning at each other - they trooped to the store in the drizzle, tag-teamed getting the ingredients, and were back home within fifteen minutes. Sascha got tangled in his sleeves and Mischa, laughing, helped him out of his soaked gear; when Sascha had successfully gotten loose they pulled back and grinned stupidly at each other. Mischa ruffled the already disheveled mop of Sascha’s curls and Sascha caught his wrist briefly and bit his lip and in that moment Mischa understood how frustrating and terrible it was that they could not fully express their affection in front of anyone else. The same realization flashed in Sascha’s eyes; he dropped Mischa’s wrist with a tiny exhale.

Under his breath he said, “I can’t.” 

“Same.” Mischa spat the word low, took Sascha’s jacket from him and brought it into the kitchen, where Irina and Alex were already banging around looking for cooking supplies. He hung both of their soaking pullovers over chair backs, kicked his shoes off into the corner of the room, examined the edges of his shorts, which were dripping with rainwater. 

“Well, my rain coat is too short.”

“Uh, same,” said Sascha, looking down at himself. “I’m gonna change into drier clothes.” 

“Me too,” said Mischa, with a solid effort at spacing his answer so it didn’t sound overeager. To their parents he said, “We’ll be back.”

“You better be,” yelled Irina after them, as they bounded from the kitchen. “I have tomatoes for you to chop.”

“Okaaaaaay,” said Sascha over his shoulder, and Mischa was laughing and then they were in their room trying not to slam the door. The instant it clicked shut Sascha leaned back against it and grinned naughtily and then Mischa was kissing him, hands fisted in Sascha’s t-shirt, all open mouths and cracking of teeth and sharp sucking breaths. They had waited all day for a moment alone and it showed.

“Fuck, Mischa, fuck,” hissed Sascha, and Mischa in answer pulled him into the bathroom, closed that door too so they were guaranteed multiple layers of protection. Pushed him up against the sink with his mouth pressed firmly to Sascha’s own and tasted his tongue. Sascha climbed backwards onto the counter and opened his thighs and Mischa intruded upon him, letting Sascha curl his legs around his hips, leaning fully into him for support with his fingers climbing Sascha’s chest to bury in his hair. Already they were both furiously hard and Sascha groaned into Mischa’s mouth, 

“We can’t keep doing this. I need – ”

“I know,” said Mischa, scratching his nails along Sascha’s scalp, eliciting goosebumps everywhere. “I do, too.”

“Tonight,” said Sascha, breathless. “I don’t care how. But tonight.”

“Okay,” said Mischa, nodding, tongue darting up under Sascha’s upper lip. “Okay. We will.”

Sascha’s answering kiss was heavy, so deep, purely sexual, turning his head so he could lick into Mischa’s mouth from every angle. His hands were clasped firm around the back of Mischa’s neck and out of pure instinct he was grinding forward into Mischa’s crotch and this time it was Mischa who whined for it, needy, clamoring for danger. When they broke apart in frustration he was insane for lust, ears ringing, brain bloodless. Out loud he said, rasping,

“So fucking hot, Sash.”

“You are,” said Sascha, pulling him back to kiss him again, and the sound when their lips broke apart was slick and sticky and wet and Mischa was done for.

“This was a horrible idea.”

“You’re telling me.” Sascha jammed the heel of his hand into the middle of his thigh, shook his head, looked away so he wouldn’t dive right back in to Mischa’s mouth. “We have to stop or we’re doing this right now and then we’re gonna have to make up some shitty excuse for them.”

“I know.” Mischa sighed, agonized. “There’s no plausible reason we should be in here with the door shut for that long.”

“What do you mean, ‘that long’?” Sascha chuckled, amused. “You planning on taking an hour? I’m gonna be done in two minutes.”

Mischa laughed out loud. “Probably beat me.” He groaned, pushed off from the sink, turned his back as he stripped his shirt. His voice was appropriately husky as he called back over his shoulder in their Frankenstein language: “Long shirts exist for a reason.”

Sascha reached into his shorts, tucked himself flat against his stomach under the waistband of his boxers, contact high. His fingers came away with a slight slickness from the weeping crown of his cock and he hopped off the sink with a sigh, followed Mischa resignedly into the room. They changed quickly, watching each other’s eyes with shifty grins pulling at the commas of their peachy lips, and Sascha said as he was pulling a fresh shirt over his head,

“This was easier when I wasn’t so fucking hard.”

Mischa laughed low. “I was just thinking that. Fucking showing off for me in the shower at the complex.” 

“Yeah, thought you’d like that.” Sascha’s voice was assured but he couldn’t say that he wasn’t apprehensive about letting Mischa see what he had done to him in the full light of their room, stark unforgiving illumination. “And you when you started touching yourself the other night. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You have a thing about watching, I think.” Mischa leaned over while Sascha was still getting his left leg into dry shorts, bestowed a soft tiny kiss on his lips. “I like that. The sooner we get out there the sooner you can watch me again.”

Sascha’s eyes rolled back for that; he stole one more probing kiss, hand low on Mischa’s hip, and as they were walking to the door Mischa said, “talk to me about something you’re hype about.”

“Why?”

“Because, Sash,” said Mischa, and he flushed. “You’re glowing and you need a reason for them other than the real one. You - look beautiful.”

Sascha’s heart came to rest at the base of his throat; for a second he couldn’t speak for the earnestness in Mischa’s eyes. Then he said,

“You keep forgetting that you’re the beautiful one.” Then, smoothly, “But can you believe the draws come out tomorrow? You get to figure out who you’ll play!”

And this conversation carried them out to the kitchen, where Irina scolded them for dawdling and set Mischa to work chopping tomatoes while Sascha was tasked with putting together the salad. They stood at the kitchen counter together and made smiling sideways eyes at one another over their respective vegetables and Mischa had never been so distracted in his life. Sascha was still lit up like a firefly and from the look in his eyes Mischa knew he was too so he tried to just sit with it, beamed down at his seedy crimson-stained chopping board feeling light as a sunbeam. At one point Sascha bumped his hip casually into Mischa’s and when Mischa looked up to his brother’s jewel eyes Sascha forgot himself and put his salad-tossing utensils down and simply stared. Sascha’s face was open, hypnotized, and Mischa felt how much he wished they were alone, radiant under Sascha’s attention. 

“Sash,” he mouthed after a moment of this, worried they’d be caught out, and Sascha blinked away his haze, almost laughed out loud for his carelessness.

“I think your tomatoes are done,” he said quietly, reaching over to steal a chunk, and Mischa put his hand on the small of Sascha’s back to maneuver around him and throw his knife in the sink.

Irina was the expert on tomato sauce and she took over where Mischa had dropped his task, added garlic and sage and various other spices as she cooked them down over the stove. The pasta they’d procured was fresh and they boiled it slowly as the sauce simmered, stealing chunks of cheese from the huge block they’d procured from the store. There was a lot of playful smacking and grappling and hysterical laughter and by the time they were ready to sit down to dinner Irina was watching her sons with amused interest.

“My little loves,” she said in Russian, “am I going to have to separate you two?” 

“Honestly, maybe, Mum,” said Sascha seriously, throwing that charismatic little grin. “He won’t leave me alone.”

“Mum, come on now, you know I would never cause trouble,” said Mischa, all calm like a pristine sky, mouthing _fuck off_ at Sascha when she turned her back.

“Uh huh.” Alex had emerged from where he’d been digging in the cupboard for glasses to scorn his eldest son. “Remember when you were eleven and you painted Sascha’s entire body with chocolate cake icing when we left you alone with him for two seconds?”

“That was _not_ me,” said Mischa, grinning as he watched Sascha choke on his own spit. “He did it to himself.”

“Liar,” said Sascha, recovering. “I was two. I could barely move my arms.”

“Bullshit. You definitely helped me spread it around.” Mischa was laughing. “I hated chocolate icing. I was mad at you for stealing my red velvet thunder.”

“Which you got on your birthday, you cake ruiner.” Sascha’s eyes were base and taunting and Mischa felt for the thousandth time that they were speaking in riddles. “So unfair. I didn’t spread icing all over YOU.”

“No, but you definitely thought about it,” said Alex, balancing them. “We had to stop you from reaching in for handfuls a few times.”

“Naughty. Sash. Thinking about it is almost as bad as doing it,” said Mischa with his mouth closing over Sascha’s cross, sucking the metal until his lips popped. Sascha felt his stomach drop and coil and kindle with that searing streak of need and bit his lip so Mischa could see exactly what kind of reaction he was producing.

“Almost,” said Irina, “but not quite. Sash’s specialty was taking crayons to my white walls.”

“Little artist,” said Alex, rumbling in his stomach from laughter. “Never colored inside the lines, either.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Sascha was grumbling, put on the spot. “I can’t draw for shit now, though.”

“No one in this family can.” Irina set a basket of garlic bread in the middle of the table, smiled. “I guess athletic prowess will have to suffice.”

Mischa opened the patio doors so they could hear the rain as it sang to them while they ate, and they watched it cascade down in waves, mesmerized. The temperature was pleasant and the food was warm and lovely and everything felt balanced. Under the table Sascha put his foot atop Mischa’s and when Mischa closed his eyes he knew Sascha was watching him, wanting.

It was nine o clock by the time they’d finished. Like the cute normal family they were they cleaned up the remnants of supper (of which there were very few; Sascha and Mischa could eat like tigers) and sat down in the living room to play monopoly. Neither of the boys minded the delay in their plans because they both got off on anticipation and Mischa liked to watch Sascha wriggle under his gaze, liked guessing what he was thinking about. He himself was difficult to read but Sascha was famous among them for the emotion that splashed readily across his face; when he was feeling something, it was a conscious struggle for him to hide it. Now his chains were constantly dripping from his mouth and his eyes were shock-awake and they kept lingering on Mischa’s face, fascinated for him, for the way he kept grazing his teeth over his lower lip. Mischa couldn’t lie to himself and say he wasn’t doing it on purpose just for Sascha’s reactions, he liked to know that Sascha was watching, interested, because Mischa was more interested in Sascha’s movements than he had been about anything in his life.

They talked about idle things, things that didn’t matter, what they’d do tomorrow and who Mischa might play first round. Doubles draws would be released the following day and juniors not until Monday so Sascha had a few more days to relax. Everything was so ordinary, down to the way Alex started grumbling under his breath when he started losing, and Mischa could almost forget the fact that he’d been tasting the inside of Sascha’s mouth two hours ago. Almost, but not quite. When he went to the kitchen to refill his glass of water Sascha entered the room after him and he felt him incoming like an imminent whipcrack of lightning, hackles standing straight up, aware. He turned around to look, leaned on the counter, drank half his glass in ten seconds watching Sascha walk across the room to fill his own cup in the sink. Purposely Mischa didn’t move out of his way and Sascha touched him as much as he possibly could leaning down to get to the faucet. 

“I’m about to forfeit.”

“Yeah?” Mischa licked droplets from the rim of his glass. He was starting to understand more and more why Sascha chose to live inside the world of melody: the intensity of what he was feeling could not be expressed with anything other than song. He said, “i kind of like watching you squirm.”

“Mmm. Apparently that voyeurism kink is genetic.” Sascha drank his glass down; Mischa watched the ripples of his throat and thought about licking his skin, thought about how Sascha would drop that head back for him when Mischa had him shoved flat against the wall of their shower, letting Sascha ride his thigh while he wrecked his lovely glowing throat into violent yellow-burgundy suckmarks. It must have showed in his face, that furious lust, because Sascha’s eyes went shadowy in answer. He swooped his tongue around his lips once, slow, and Mischa felt his salivary glands release. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” This was how they were now, acting in guarded riddles and speaking in mixed-up tongues, hiding in clear sight thirty feet from their innocent parents. Dangerous.

“Mischa, I want you,” said Sascha low, fearless again, and Mischa had the fleeting thought that Sascha was far too young to be speaking in such a way but he knew that this was untrue. He was closer to seventeen than sixteen now and his shoulders grew broader every day, that deep chant of a voice dropping octaves. _Want_ was not a foreign concept to him.

“Sash, if we weren’t about to play the French,” said Mischa, but he stopped himself, shook his head; Sascha didn’t need things to be spelled out to understand. “Twenty minutes.”

Sascha followed him back into the living room, pressed his thumb into the middle of Mischa’s spine, shivers crawling Mischa’s arms, deep as bone. “Fifteen.”

It was closer to thirty. Irina caused Mischa to go bankrupt when he landed on one of her hotel-laden properties and after that it was quick curtains for the rest of them. She won handily, as she often did, and gloated laughing about it while the boys cleaned up, disputing her claim to be unbeaten in a cowed sort of way.

When the floor was cleared Sascha stretched his fairy-boned arms over his head, gave a pronounced yawn. 

“Bed,” said Mischa, catching the yawn like the flu, and Sascha said emphatically, “yes.”

“Draws come out at eleven,” yelled Alex to their retreating backs as they exited the room. “Be awake.”

Over their shoulders they yelled in harmony, “We will,” and then Sascha was through the doorway and Mischa was shutting them in for the night. His fingers hesitated over the lock but in the end he chose not to tempt fate and twisted it as soundlessly as he could, forgetting to breathe. Sascha watched him, eyes gleaming catlike in the dark. Mischa fell back against the door and waited for him, to see what he’d do.

Sascha didn’t speak, just cut the distance between them to press his body to Mischa’s own, resting his hand above Mischa’s head for leverage as he leaned down to kiss him. He tasted clean and cool but his torso under all that cotton was warm and without even a second thought Mischa reached between them to roll Sascha’s shirt over his head. With careful, curious hands he mapped the roads and mountains and dunes of Sascha’s lovely body, learning him, his angles. Sascha let him, breathed shuddering breath into Mischa’s mouth, tried to keep himself from crossing the line that his body begged him to breach.

“You said _if we weren’t about to play the French,_ ” he said, daring, and Mischa dropped his head to Sascha’s shoulder and mouthed along his skin. “What, Mischa? What if?”

“You were supposed to forget about that.”

“Have you met me?” Sascha’s fingers were trailing at the hem of Mischa’s shirt and when Mischa pulled back he took advantage and yanked it off. Mischa emerged with his russet head slightly ruffled; he was smiling.

“I have, as a matter of fact. Many times.” Mischa couldn’t stop touching Sascha’s hips, his obvious ribcage, he was ethereal and his skin was butter and Mischa wanted to get on his knees for him right there. He pushed the thought away.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” purred Sascha along the line of Mischa’s jaw, “but eventually you will.” 

“Eventually I’ll show you,” said Mischa frankly, and Sascha clutched at his hips, yanked them flush. He was astonishingly hard and Mischa was too and he felt his mouth parch, extremities tingling, wanting. Against the door they were a single writhing entity, at last as close as they’d wished to be all day.

Sascha bent his head, pulled the chain around Mischa’s neck into his mouth, and Mischa stole it gently with his teeth; Sascha kissed him, licked around the biting copper taste in Mischa’s mouth. “I want to do this every time I see you put it in your mouth,” he said, soft.

Mischa smirked for his word choice. “I think you learned that habit from me.”

“I learned everything from you,” said Sascha, “except how to hold a poker face.”

Mischa rubbed Sascha’s gooseflesh arms, smiled. “I don’t want you to master that art. I live for your facial expressions.”

“Yeah, you live to make me hard in public, too.”

“I like to make you hard, period. Doesn’t have to be public.” Mischa bulled forward, parted Sascha’s thighs with his knee, subtle aggression. In his chest Sascha rumbled brokenly and Mischa let him ride his leg, holding him steady while he drove downward with his hips, shameless. “I like to know it’s for me.”

“Got your wish,” Sascha choked out, and Mischa put their foreheads together; Sascha’s was hot with sweat and fervor. In the still air their breath seemed loud as a tempest; Mischa was harder and harder for every rough pant from Sascha’s throat. He understood that it was delicate, that Sash was so very young and thus very easily stimulated, but he wanted everything, everything with him, wanted to thrust into his mouth and glide slick fingers inside of him, and all the while he hated himself. Such thin lines they were treading. To silence his thought process Mischa pressed forward, hunting; he could feel Sascha’s cock as it twitched rhythmically with the tempo of his grinding hips. When he moaned helplessly aloud Mischa drank it from his mouth like wine.

“I wanna cum with you,” he said, hiss-muffled into Sascha’s lips, and Sascha shuddered. Spat Mischa’s name, caught his wrist, drew his hand in so it rested on Sascha’s lower belly.

And just like that they were undressing, no secrets, shorts crunched up at their feet, Sascha’s spine still flat against the white door so pure contrasted to the black of their blasphemy. Mischa kept his free hand on Sascha’s stomach, drawing out the first stroke of his swollen cock with his mouth closed so he’d only be able to hum pleasure through his nose, closing his mouth over Sascha’s indecently parted lips to catch the sound of his brother’s rushing relief. Sascha was quick about the motion of his hand from pure need and Mischa was hypnotized but he’d waited all day for this and he wasn’t about to let it end with such haste. With some effort he stopped fucking his hand, slapped fingers damp with precome around Sascha’s forearm (and Sascha thought stricken: _wet they’re wet his fingers are wet Jesus fucking Christ_ ) to slow him down, smiled for the question in Sascha’s pretty lush-lashed eyes.

“Not yet,” he husked, “go slow.”

And from a high dive he jumped, took a step back into their dim moonlit room, despite his trepidation let Sascha see him. Glow-skin, sable hair crackling with dots of silvery lunar light, eyes luminous and sin-black at the same time. His cock was thick and long and he was obviously in a painful state of arousal and Sascha couldn’t stop staring, licked his lips without knowing what he was doing, voracious. He couldn’t imagine how they were going to make it through the next week without breaking Mischa’s rule of caution because right now Sascha wanted him, all of him, whatever Mischa would give. This was a need on a level he’d never experienced in his life: more than a Grand Slam, more than a gold medal. 

Mischa kept his eyes pasted to Sascha’s, slicked a thumb over his own pouring slit, sucked it into his mouth. Sascha felt his body melt: Mischa had been correct when he’d accused him of having a thing for observation without direct participation. He said, voice ragged, belly wracked with sick arousal,

“Fuck.”

Mischa smiled slow like a wolf. Under Sascha’s scrutiny he was new, cocksure; he understood how Sascha saw him and that was enough. He allowed himself a leisurely stroke, thumb popping off at the tip for his own wetness, and his voice when he spoke was like a gallivanting flame.

“Yeah?”

Sascha couldn’t master himself enough to reply with coherence so he let his answer be movement, crossed to Mischa in one long stride, kissed him openly so he could sample the salt under Mischa’s tongue. The tang in his mouth was faint but it was there and the shock of it nearly unraveled him. He could feel that vulpine smile still spread under his lips and loved Mischa for it, his wickedness, his mischief. He struck forward; Mischa stepped back, he wouldn’t let their hips touch. Sascha knew why but he was _keening_ for it, wanting Mischa’s skin against his own, boundaries be damned. Again he tried to advance, again Mischa withdrew, laughing a little against his mouth for his determination.

“Misch _aaaaaaa.”_

“No,” said Mischa softly, kissing like he was starved and Sascha’s mouth was culinary opulence, a glutton for him. “Not yet.”

“Wanna feel you,” protested Sascha weakly, red and black at his framework, punch-drunk for lust. Mischa was beautiful and he wanted touch, taste, friction.

“I want that too,” said Mischa, placating murmur. “But not here. Not now.”

“You fuck me up, Mischa,” said Sascha, riled, reaching between them so he could touch himself, so hard as to be agonizing, needy. “You can’t do that with the thumb sucking and then not let me. This is all I fucking think about.”

“Me too,” breathed Mischa. “But not touching you is like incentive for me. I’m fucking peaking right now and it’s because I haven’t let myself do what I want to you and my body is using tennis as an outlet. I know it’s the same for you, Sash, I’ve never seen you crack serves like that.”

“You’re not letting yourself do what to me,” said Sascha, low, jerking himself gently while he backed Mischa into the side of the bed. Mischa fell on it and pulled Sascha down next to him, lay back and stretched and started toying with his erection, eyes on Sascha’s hand, the furious bulging veins under his fingers.

“Everything,” said Mischa. “Everything, Sascha.”

He pressed his palm over the trembling muscles of Sascha’s abdomen, rolled to his side so he could kiss Sascha’s half-parted lips, spat “fuck” into his mouth as he found his rhythm again. _Everything._

Sascha thought of the bitter faint tang in Mischa’s mouth, thought of him saying _you on your knees for me_ , the wanton way he’d sucked his thumb clean. How strong might his taste be if Sascha licked his slit, lapping over and over until Mischa’s knees were collapsing. He liked that thought, liked Mischa powerless for him.

“Everything like me on my knees for you,” he said aloud, and Mischa groaned thick in his throat.

“You like to make this impossible.”

“I have no patience,” said Sascha. “Don’t you know that by now? Give me your hand. That one.”

He pointed to the hand that Mischa had used to swipe precum from the head of his cock; Mischa gave it to him already knowing what he was in for and Sascha slurped his thumb easily into his mouth, milkshake through a straw suction, lidded eyes staring insolently into Mischa’s own.

Mischa was done, he couldn’t wait, he was stroking himself with fury now, imagination high as the sky. Sascha’s lips sucked and worked and moved around his thumb, tongue working, hot pressure. He, too, had picked up the pace on his own straining weeping cock and after a moment he started to whimper. Mischa felt it in hot blasts, ground his teeth against the urge to pull Sascha on top of him and let them both grind to completion, it wouldn’t take thirty seconds. They were inches apart and it would have been nothing at all for him to bring their hips together. At last he tore his thumb from Sascha’s mouth and kissed him growling and sascha whined, reached out for him, any part of him, closed his fingers around Mischa’s viciously stroking wrist. They both swore.

“Mischa,” hummed Sascha, “come for me.”

And that was it, that was all it took, Sascha’s cajoling voice and his hand pinned around Mischa’s wrist and his seething proximity. Mischa came hard all through his fingers, on the bedspread, and by Sascha’s sharp inhale he knew they were close enough that he’d spurted somewhere onto Sascha’s skin. Before he could even begin to process Sascha was shuddering, belly quivering against Mischa’s hand as he climaxed, that sharp curse in his throat and he was spilling everywhere and when Mischa put his hand down between them for leverage he touched hot milky wetness. Maybe it was just Sascha or maybe a mix of them both but he was still riding the high of his orgasm and his cock jerked helplessly for the thought. Sascha watched him prone, panting, observed his hand spattered with piquant fluid.

“I think I felt some of yours,” he said quietly, and put his mouth to Mischa’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” said Mischa, so used to apologizing everything away with the subdued women he’d been with before, but Sascha shook his head violently and kissed him again.

“Shut up,” he said. Then, before he lost his nerve: “I would let you cum all over me and you fucking know it.”

Mischa gawked, swallowed.

“Keep it up,” he said raspily, “you might get your way.”

“God damn, Mischa, don’t get me started again,” said Sascha, laughing, and Mischa kissed him with such tenderness that Sascha melted, sighed.

They cleaned up in the bathroom, returned to the room in only their boxers, curled up in the unsoiled bed with their limbs roped together, sweat cooling between them. For a while they just kissed, gently, over and over, and Mischa thought that he’d never had something close to this, something that elicited from him such strong lust and love at the same time. Sascha made him insane: his thoughts were preoccupied one hundred percent of the time, indecent thoughts, moony sickening lovelorn thoughts, idle thoughts, protective thoughts.

“I love you,” said Sascha, stroking Mischa’s hair back from his eyes, and Mischa thought he knew what he was saying.

“I love you too.”

They fell asleep easily, curled together, and when they woke it was nine am. The house hadn’t stirred. They were safe.

*

The day was platinum skies, barking thunder, intermittent rain. Mischa had drawn the twenty-eighth seed and he wasn’t bothered at all. They sipped their to-go coffee by the balcony window and waited for the storm to clear and spoke in glances and covert touches and insinuations, exploding with their progression. All the while they both just wanted more, more, more.

And just like that, easy as a fall breeze, they had a routine. During the day they stole whatever they could from one another, drinking of each other’s cups to slake themselves through to the night, where they could knit together like rope and stroke each other’s skin and speak without reservation for the first time all day. On the practice court, though they were achingly tempted, they tried not to whisper behind their hands; the best day was when they played a doubles set against Kohli and Haase and they were so relaxed and so pleased to just be able to talk to each other, laugh and flirt and tease under cover of point instructions and a tennis ball. They lost 7-5 but neither of them went full out. It was time to save energy for the real thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so. Their flirtation is getting out of control but IT'S FINE. Mischa knows what he's doing, I think ;)
> 
> Ooof, also? This week in Basel fucked me up. I need them to play doubles together like every week.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this part listening almost exclusively to [Together - the XX]() and if I had to guess I think this is probably what's playing in the shower on repeat ;)

On Sunday they woke up early, went to the practice courts so Mischa could sweat it out and then relax all day. His was one of the first matches on on Monday and he was jumped up, nervous but so, so ready. He figured at this point he could survive anything: he and his little brother were masturbating together almost nightly now and they were able to look their parents in the eye next morning like it was fucking nothing. Grand Slams were pie compared to that.

They rode to the stadium with the sunrise peaking above them, lounging in the backseat with Sascha’s earbuds forging their sole connection. That was how they communicated when they couldn’t be frank: music, melody. Mischa felt like a giddy lovelorn teenager, he was looking for Sascha in every song now, and he was finding him. Their playlist was getting longer and longer and once or twice Sash had sent him songs without context, knowing he would look up the lyrics and decipher them for himself. The pieces Sascha chose ranged from neon-screaming obvious to blurred subtlety, wordplay, riddles and foreign tongues. Mischa loved them all.

That night they went to the Eiffel Tower for an early supper, brought sandwiches to the top floor, creating their own kind of fancy. There were little tables and benches scattered around the platform and they sat near the edge of the railing, watching the faded-denim sky, quiet. 

“It’s not quite éclairs,” said Mischa, grinning around a mouthful of ham and cheese, but Irina reached into the little lunch box she’d brought and pulled out a little box of pastries, sticky from the heat, thick fresh dough under gleaming chocolate glaze. Mischa gave an audible gasp; beside him Sascha squirmed. By now he had started equating Mischa’s noises with heat and bruising kisses and the smell of sex and Mischa didn’t have to look at him to understand what was trailing unbidden through his mind.

“Where did you get them?” There was more than one question mark behind Mischa’s words.

“I popped by a little stand on the way over while you guys were deep in strategy discussion,” said Irina, smiling fondly at them, nudging her husband in the side. Alex was known for increasing the intensity of his pep talks the day before one of his sons played a match and today was no different: he’d been dissecting Mischa’s opponent like a frog in a biology lab and Sascha and Mischa had been subject to the details. “Took me two minutes. You guys didn’t have a clue.” 

It was true; none of them had noticed her absence. Despite their complaints about Alex’s intensity both Sascha and Mischa had inherited the trait and they’d been eyeball-deep in the discussion, too.

“Mum, you’re a genius,” said Mischa, throwing fond eyes at the box of eclairs. “Sash, you’re trying these, you have to.”

“I will,” said Sascha. “I’ve never had eclairs this authentic before.”

“Maybe you’ll be a convert,” said Alex, leaning forward to inspect. “Double chocolate?”

“I got four of those and four vanilla cream,” said Irina patiently. “Maybe not the best thing for Mischa to eat before his match, but it’s Paris.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Mischa, finishing his sandwich, eyeing the box with hunger. “Is it legit if we don’t eat these standing by the balcony, though? I mean really.”

“Aww, did you want to get a picture of me feeding you an éclair?” Sascha with his trickster eyes, coaxing him to push back, all jest.

“You’re the photo hound, Sash,” said Mischa calmly, but he was grinning. 

“Thank god one of you is or I’d never get any pictures at all,” said Irina in lamentation. “I agree with Mischa, though. It doesn’t count if we don’t eat them by the railing.” 

By this time twilight was upon them and the surrounding cityscape had begun to burn with manmade light. They each chose an éclair, pleasantly melting in their hands, and went to linger near the side of the gigantic structure, silent with awe. The whole scenario was disgustingly romantic and Mischa longed again for the freedom that anonymity would allow them, the ability to go unseen, a world where they could kiss and kiss on the lush field in the front of the Tower and turn no one’s head. Next to him Sascha was close, close, close, elbow crooked precariously on the railing so he could lean sideways into Mischa’s arm, ruination in his eyes. Mischa couldn’t look at him but he did anyway.

Without taking his gaze from Mischa’s Sascha took a bite of his eclair. It was already overflowing with cream and when his mouth came away it started dripping from the center, thick and white and ridiculously suggestive. Sascha caught the flow deftly with his palm, licked viscous sweet from his skin, smirked without showing his teeth. Mischa closed his eyes.

“Sash, you’re dripping,” said Irina gently from Sascha’s other side, swooping in with a stack of napkins that she placed firmly under her youngest son’s hand. “Meesh, are you okay, you look like you’re dying."

“Mmmph.” Mischa swallowed his first bite, let his eyes roll back, went all in because it was the only way to cover the expression on his face. “Mum, these eclairs are just _so fucking good_ , you know? Like, they are literally _overflowing_.”

“I wish I got as excited about anything as you do about éclairs, Meesh,” said Sascha cheekily, poking out his tongue. Mischa thought of the way his mouth would taste right now and gritted his teeth.

“I think this is you with all food, Sash,” said Alex, and Sascha pursed his lips, shrugged his bird-thin shoulders.

“Fair." 

“There’s just nothing like a Parisian éclair,” said Mischa. “Like, the ones in Marseille were good, but holy god.”

“There’ll be more for you if you win tomorrow,” said Irina, grinning. 

“Even if you don’t,” said Sascha. “I’ll take you for more. I want to document this entire experience from the beginning next time.”

“I bet you do,” grumbled Mischa, and Sascha grinned like a shimmering finger-ray of sun. “Anyway, I’m not going to lose. I feel it.”

In unison the rest of them chimed, “Me, too,” and Mischa beamed.

Before they finished their eclairs Irina asked a passerby to take their photo; despite moaning and groaning from all three men they smiled their massive trademark smiles at the camera, held their half-eaten pastries out, _look how Parisian we are_. Irina made Sascha and Mischa stand shoulder to shoulder for another photo and just before she snapped it Sascha shoved his eclair into Mischa’s face and the ensuing brawl was sticky, raucous, uproarious. Sascha ended up with icing in his hair; Mischa had chocolate trailing from his eyebrow, but they were weak-kneed from laughter and it felt like they’d never have a care in the world. Because Irina was a cool mom and didn’t go to pieces when her sons acted like the well-meaning idiots they were, the photos turned out stunningly; the absolute joy on their faces was impossible to miss, eyes glinting bright as emeralds with it, mouths open yelling in hysteria. The absolute pinnacle of happiness.

Napkins couldn’t do much for them after they’d smeared chocolate and icing all over each other but they did their best. Sascha held Mischa still while he scrubbed at his darkened left eyebrow and they tried not to look at each other; their proximity was setting the air on fire. Neither of them could stop grinning and in the background Irina kept snapping pictures. “My babies,” she kept cooing, “it’s almost like you like each other.”

“Please, Mum, you know we’re best friends,” said Mischa, and Sascha glowed. “When was the last time we fought about anything?" 

“Not in years,” said Alex, fairly. “Not that i can recall.”

“Maybe for the last piece of garlic bread? I don’t know.” Sascha pinched Mischa on the cheek. “He just knows he’d never win in a real fight, don’t you, Meesh.” 

“Excuse me, you better cool it, I can still beat your ass,” said Mischa, and without any sort of warning at all Sascha’s face took on a warm flowery flush, heat at his cheeks as he ducked his head to try to hide. Mischa caught his expression and had to bite at the inner corners of his saccharine mouth to stop his fond from showing; Sascha was achingly lovely when he was embarrassed. 

“All right, all right, children,” said Alex, calm in his pacifying tactics. “Mischa, when do you want to go? Do you want to relax at home before bed, or what?” 

“You tell us,” added Irina, gathering napkins from the boys, busy as always. “We can do whatever.” 

“We can stay for a bit. I probably won’t be able to sleep from nerves anyway,” said Mischa. 

“I can sing you a lullaby,” said Sascha helpfully.

“Oh, in that case.” Mischa smiled. “What time is it? Six?” 

“Half past,” said Irina, checking her watch.

“Let’s stay,” said Mischa. “I can relax here. The view is insane.”

So they stayed. After a bit Alex and Irina wandered around to the opposite side of the observation deck for a swap of scenery; Sascha and Mischa lingered, deliberately not looking at each other until their parents were out of sight. Sascha had Mischa’s cross firmly tucked under his tongue and he was tapping his nails on the railing incessantly and Mischa was going insane trying not to touch him.

“Did you want me to lick that icing off you, or,” he said low, in their mutt language, still not able to commit to eye contact.

“In my wildest dreams,” said Sascha, smooth as that chocolate buttercream, but Mischa could feel him shaking.

“Kink?”

“I think so."

“So it would appear.” Mischa leaned sideways into Sascha’s arm and the younger purred out, surprised for the contact, needy. “You have a few.”

“Yeah? Tell me yours,” said Sascha, voice like a lung-deep sigh, all wanting rasp.

“I think you can guess.”

“I don’t want to guess.”

They were sparring again, emanating sexual tension through wordplay, and Mischa didn’t know how they weren’t transparent to everyone present. He wanted hands, he wanted tongues lips teeth, Sascha’s body aligned against his own. 

“Uh,” he said, and laughed a little, dropped his head between his arms. “I have an oral thing.” 

“Ah.” Sascha’s voice was too knowing. “Yeah, you do. Me on my knees for you.”

“Yeah. You with the cross in your mouth all the time...” Mischa breathed out. “You make my life hard.”

“You make my dick hard,” blurted Sascha, and Mischa laughed out loud.

“Can you fucking stop?”

“You don’t want me to.”

“No, I don’t want you to.” Mischa bared his teeth, gritted them. Around them the crowd hummed; the sky was reducing to black. “I want - other things.” 

“Me too.” Sascha looked sideways at him and Mischa grabbed him at the back of his neck, worked his fingers there. They were both leaning so hard into the railing it was cutting into their skin and Mischa had his free hand curled around it like he was floundering in the ocean and it was a rope he’d been thrown.

Sascha _mmmmm_ ed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can YOU fucking stop?” 

“You don’t want me to,” mimicked Mischa, grinning.

“You’re right.” Sascha toppled into him, tilted his tawny mop head; Mischa wanted to kiss him so intensely his mouth was watering. “God damn the fucking French Open.”

Mischa gasped, mock insulted. “Alexander."

“Mikhail.” Sascha raised his head, crinkled his pale freckle-spotted nose. “I wanna go somewhere. Just us. I want you and me in a room alone.”

“I know.” Mischa slid his fingers up through Sascha’s hair. “Our timing really is damnable."

Sascha said, “What would we do? If we didn’t have to focus?”

Mischa looked at him, searched him, bit his lower lip already raw from Sascha’s bruising kisses. “Whatever you want.”

“To touch you,” said Sascha, and he kept his voice down even though they were speaking in their _komisch Zunge_. “For you to touch me. For you to let me rub against you when we’re naked. I want that so bad, Mischa, you’re killing me.” 

Mischa’s voice came out strained. “Me too.” He could feel blood throbbing in his cock and he was so glad that he was wearing jeans. “Sash, are you hard?” 

Sascha snorted. “I got hard when you were watching me eat that eclair.”

“Which was delicious, wasn’t it?” 

“Actually, yeah, not bad.” Sascha pressed forward into the railing, closed his eyes. “Are you?”

“What?” Mischa wanted it verbalized.

“Hard.”

“Yes,” said Mischa quietly. “Very.”

Sascha scooted closer to him, reached his left arm under his right elbow so he could latch on to Mischa’s wrist, stroke his skin. “I wanna kiss you.”

Mischa gave a frustrated little groan. “I think we should go.”

“I think we should, too.” Sascha checked his watch. “It’s seven fifteen. I won’t keep you up late if we go now.”

“You can keep me up late whenever the fuck you want.” Mischa glanced around them; their parents were nowhere in sight and visuals were dim and dingy in the night air and he was reckless. He leaned over, nuzzled into the side of Sascha’s bared neck with his forehead. Sascha drew in a sharp breath.

“Mischa, we need to get out of here.” 

“Yes.” Mischa took his hand, squeezed it, peeled away from the railing so sascha would follow. They walked close together with Sascha’s arm looped firmly around Mischa’s shoulders and when they turned the corner to the other side they found Alex and Irina already walking towards them.

“You guys ready?” Alex said, grinning when he saw them. “God, it’s weird that Sash is taller than you, Meesh.”

“Tell me about it,” said Mischa, complaining. “Little giraffe.”

“Little giraffe? That’s an oxymoron,” said Sascha, tugging habitually at the hem of his shirt, and Mischa knew he was conscious of his state of arousal. His stomach was burning.

“No no,” said Irina, “it works. Meesh, you okay? Nervous? Need anything on the way home?”

“Nah,” said Mischa. “I wanna take a shower and watch TV until I fall asleep. I’m good.”

He said it all with a straight face and Sascha thought about them dripping in the shower and thought about pressing Mischa back into the wall with his hip and his eyes went blank for the daydream, for his lust. Mischa looked into his face and their gazes clashed and Mischa lost his breath about the blackness of Sascha’s eyes, his aggressive need. As they walked to the elevator he pulled Sascha back, murmured, “Sash, your expression.”

Sascha looked at him, startled, grinned sheepishly. “What?”

Mischa was grinning too, but he shook his head, they couldn’t speak now. He slid his fingers around the scruff of Sascha’s neck and they stayed like that the whole ride down, quivering, blood screaming, talking about anything else just to distract themselves. It was terrible and wonderful, the anticipation, the total lack of public fruition, and Sascha was afraid that later he’d last five seconds. They’d taken a break the night before because they’d gotten in late and they’d both been exhausted, instead lying bare from the waist up with their limbs entwined like ropes, Sascha’s curly head centered on Mischa’s chest, feet hanging off the end of the bed. They were getting good at timing their alarms, waking early to unlock their door and separate into different beds, smiling shyly at each other, exposed in the golden sunshine.

When they reached the ground floor Sascha pulled his phone out and Mischa already knew that he was texting him; under pretext of gawping up at the Tower he hung back for a moment so they could avoid parental suspicion.

_[Am I being obvious]_

_(Only to me)_

_[you can’t talk about showers in front of Mum and dad]_

_(I will now be talking about showers in front of Mum and Dad far more often)_

_[fuck off]_

Mischa was smirking down at his phone and so was sascha and they both had to steel themselves, stow the conversation, they were walking the line. When they reached the car Mischa, who had driven them there, tossed Alex the keys.

“I’m pulling match privilege,” he said, and Alex laughed.

“Driving is too exhausting because you play early?”

“Exactly.”

Sascha was already in, sprawled in his seat, limbs like tree branches. “Honestly, Dad, I think that’s valid. You know how it goes, you used to play.”

“Decades ago,” said Alex, but he got into the driver’s side anyway, and off they went. There seemed to never be a time that traffic in Paris wasn’t awful but on a Sunday night it was manageable and they made it back to their flat within fifteen minutes. Sascha and Mischa texted throughout the entire journey, listened to dark trip-hop, which was Sascha’s go-to when he was horny. There was a lot of suggestive, thinly veiled talk about what might happen when they reached their destination, a lot of cat and mouse:

_[so you’re showering tonight]_

_(Yes)_

Pause.

_(Are you?)_

_[yeah]_

_(with me, or)_

_[that an invitation?]_

_(what do you think)_

Sascha looked up from his phone, out the window, smirked. Glanced over at Mischa, who had his first curled at his mouth and his forehead pressed half into his own window, chewing at his mouth in agitation.

_[i think a lot of things]_

_(Such as?)_

_[such as we shouldn’t take breaks like we did last night because I’m going to lose it after ten seconds]_

_(please advise)_

Mischa was the one smirking now; he knew what Sascha meant, he liked to elicit forthrightness from his brother, who could not hide his face but was quite good at veiling his meaning in riddles and metaphors.

_[if we do it in the shower I’m going to fucking cum all over you]_

Mischa felt his mouth go parched, quick as a light switch turning off, and swallowed.

_(You act like i don’t want that more than anything)_

Again with a movement sharp as a whipcrack Sascha looked sideways at him; he couldn’t help himself. Mischa was watching him with clear intention in his face and habitually, without even instructing his brain to follow the command, Sascha licked a slow hot line across the top of his mouth.

_[you want me to cum on you?]_

_(I’m not opposed)_

_[neither am I. To you on me.]_

_(Sash. Fuck. When we’re done at the French, Jesus Christ.)_

And here they had to stop because their father had parked the car in the garage beneath their flat, both of them glass-eyed and woozy, woozy, wanting. Sascha felt as though there was molten gold sitting heavy in his stomach and his pulse was roaring. They raced each other up the stairs, Sascha elbowing his way into the nonexistent space beside Mischa, both of them bellowing uproariously and when they reached the third floor they nearly tumbled each other to the floor. Mischa touched their door a fraction of a second before Sascha, crowed.

“I win.”

“Oh fuck you,” grumbled Sascha, and Mischa looked him straight on in the eye and gave an absolutely unholy smile and they both stopped dead. There was no one around, they’d beaten their parents by a mile. Like a wool blanket the unspoken want draped over them, hot and heavy, and they were still staring at each other when the elevator dinged.

“Shower,” announced Mischa as they hurtled through the door, kicking his shoes off, and he took off for their bedroom.

“Hey! Are we waking up early so I can warm you up tomorrow or what? Cause if we are I have to go to bed early too,” Sascha called after him. 

Mischa turned around to look, hovering in the doorframe, and grinned. “Yes. I need like half an hour at eight or so.”

Sascha groaned, slumped his shoulders forward, moping with his fat lower lip poked out. “I literally hate you.”

“You adore me,” said Mischa confidently. “Doesn’t he, Mum.” To Irina, who was stacking the eclair box on top of the refrigerator for later, smiling as she listened to her sons banter.

“Oh he does,” she said, easily. “Never seen anything like it, really. You’ve been his idol since he was born.”

“Probably because you half raised him,” said Alex, roughing Mischa’s hair as he passed by to get to the living room. “And you indulged him when he wanted to carry around your extra rackets.”

In harmony Sascha and Mischa both recited, “Me tennis!” and burst out laughing. Sascha’s face was rosy from his parents’ words and when he glanced at Mischa his eyes were shy because they both knew it was true. Mischa winked at him and sascha’s lovely face glowed instantly, a lightbulb illuminating a crow-black room. To make the early wake-up call a bit easier Mischa said,

“You want to watch The Office till we fall asleep?”

“Fiiiiiiiiiine,” conceded Sascha, but he was still grinning. The Office was his favorite show and Mischa knew it; he also knew he could talk sascha into a rewatch at pretty much any time he wanted, no questions asked. “Go get your shower and I’ll set it up."

So they bid goodnight to their parents, disappeared into their room. Mischa followed Sascha’s orders and went into the bathroom to adjust the shower temperature and he was already soaking wet naked under the stream, eyes closed open mouth when sascha walked in. Sascha looked at him with his lips parted, tongue stuck out to touch the middle of his top lip, hungering. He wanted things that he had no idea how to ask for, wanted to do things to Mischa that he in reality had no idea how to execute; all he could express was his obvious physical need. In frustration he pressed his lips together, growled without knowing he was vocalizing, and Mischa’s eyes popped open for the sound. He found Sascha’s blatant voracious gaze, raised an eyebrow.

“Sash, get in here.”

Sascha’s blood thrilled; he locked the door behind him, took his phone out of his pocket and turned their playlist on soft to erase the noise of the anxious need in his head. Mischa was watching him, clear diamonds of water rivering down his lovely sculpted body, and Sascha was ready to beg if it meant he had permission to touch Mischa everywhere. He slid his clothes off slow, kept an eye on Mischa’s face for his reaction, gratified for the unveiled want in Mischa’s eyes. When he stepped into the shower he went to stand under the water sideways so they were next to each other and when their bare arms brushed Mischa sighed out loud.

“Did you like me putting on a show about going to bed early?” Sascha was smirking at the eyes, wicked.

“Yes. Very convincing.” Mischa cupped his hands so the water pooled, let his palms overflow. “Almost as convincing as that innocent look when you bombed my face with your eclair.”

“Driving you publicly crazy is my new favorite hobby." 

“New?” Mischa laughed out loud. “No. Favorite? Yes.”

Sascha leaned sideways into him, chuckled low. “Yeah, and? We’ve already established that you love it.”

“No denying that,” said Mischa, and they both cracked shit eating grins. “So, there was something I was thinking about today. Since we’ve been talking about going somewhere no one knows us for privacy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We both have a week off after the French, right?”

“Yes. I know I do for sure, I’ve been going for like a month straight now,” said Sascha, threading his fingers back through his hair to wet it all over. “Why? You want to do something?”

“I obviously can’t plan for what’s going to happen,” said Mischa slowly, “but I think it would be smart for us to not be occupying the same space as Mum and dad when I’m not so worried about fucking up our mindset for the French open.”

Sascha’s eyebrows arced sharply.

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Mischa was casual, not looking at him, eyes shut under the cascade of steaming water. “We could go to the mountains, or the beach. Somewhere not super public.” 

“If we go to the mountains no one will be able to follow,” said Sascha, contemplative. “If you’re talking like a cabin.” 

“Uncle Serge has that time share in the Alps,” said Mischa casually.

Sascha looked at him, grinned hard, shook his head.

“He would never let us.”

“Dad can talk him into it if he wants to,” said Mischa. He laid his palms flat against the shower wall, shifted his weight to his left leg. “He’s not stingy with rewards when we win more than he expects us to.”

“Which we’re going to,” said Sascha confidently. “As long as you keep not letting me do what I want to do to you.”

Mischa turned to him, seized him by the scruff of his neck, raised his head so they were nearly at eye level with each other. Sascha swallowed, bared his teeth, but stayed still. 

“Elaborate.”

“You know.”

Mischa relaxed his grip, touched Sascha’s face, gentle. “I told you it helps to be frustrated.”

“I am never not frustrated from you,” said Sascha. His voice was powerless, raspy. “I don’t even know how to do what I want to do with you. We’re talking about coming on each other and you’re talking about me on my knees and you jerking me off and sometimes i can’t breathe for how much i fucking need that. I know it’s fast and i know it’s fucked but i can’t...not want it, Meesh.” 

From under dripping curls he looked at Mischa with a kind of fierce apology in his eyes; Mischa reached out and pushed his hair back out of his luminous eyes and kissed him on the mouth.

“It is fucked,” he said, low. “You’re sixteen, Sash. You’re not even legal. What does that make me?”

Sascha kissed him back, put their foreheads together like he loved to do. “It doesn’t make you anything,” he said. “Maybe it makes societal rules not apply to us because we got fucked with the whole ‘love knows no bounds’ thing? I don’t know. I think it makes you brave. You’ve known what i was doing forever and I’m a kid and you still trusted me, that i know what I’m feeling.”

In the background Sascha’s music was soaring, aviation heights, and so was Mischa’s pulse, his lifeblood, his stomach. He mapped his fingers down the ridges of Sascha’s shoulderblades, the indents at the small of his back, imprinting. “I told you. You’re not a kid,” he said. “Not to me. Not where it matters.” 

“That’s part of why I - why this happened,” said sascha, stumbling, and Mischa wasn’t sure but he thought sascha might have changed his choice of words mid-sentence. “You never treated me like I was young. You’ve always been everything, Mischa.”

“You’ve been that to me, too,” said Mischa. “I was like, missing out on life before you came along. Which is funny, cause I was so mad when I found out Mum was pregnant.” 

“You thought I’d ruin your life, huh,” said Sascha, grinning.

“Oh, for sure. Siblings are an only child’s worst nightmare.” Mischa shrugged. “I wasn’t wrong, though. You did end up ruining me. Just in a good way.”

Sascha’s face lit up like a constellation; he lived for Mischa’s praise, made him the sun like the Egyptians worshipped Ra, his glittering untouchable idol. He caught Mischa’s hands as they came around to rest on his forearms.

“You play tomorrow,” he said. “Do I need to leave you alone tonight?”

Mischa snorted. “Sash, what part of ‘i want you to cum on me’ did you not understand?” 

Shocked, squeezing Mischa’s fingers, Sascha choked out a laugh, all moon eyes and shining teeth. “Evidently all of it?”

“Evidently.” Mischa put his mouth between Sascha’s bladed collarbones, licked him, exhilaration for Sascha’s resultant shudder pouring through him. He raised his head as Sascha bent his down and for a moment they hovered, close enough to inhale the other’s exhale, smiling as they waited for the other to make a move. At last Sascha with his eyes still open slipped his tongue gently into Mischa’s mouth, tasted him, and Mischa chuckled hotly.

“I can’t deal with you,” he said, and Sascha kissed him leisurely before he answered.

“How?” 

“All your talk about not knowing how to do what you want to do,” said Mischa, fingertips at the foundation of Sascha’s spine, “but then you kiss me like that? You know more than you think you do.”

“I know you,” said Sascha, and again his tongue fluttered into Mischa’s mouth, under first his top lip, then his bottom, searching. Mischa let him explore, free hand clenched at his side keeping him grounded, but the urge to push Sash back into the wall was bleeding through his rational mind and he was made more of want than anything else at all. “You like when I taste you like this.”

Mischa closed his eyes, groaned out loud. “Sascha, Jesus fuck.”

Sascha _mmmm_ ed, reached up and slid the chain of Mischa’s cross between his fingers. “Uh huh.” 

“I like everything you fucking do.” Mischa’s fingers were kneading Sascha’s back; he was fighting himself and sascha knew it. “You like to watch me.” 

“Yes.” Sascha breathed into Mischa’s throat, the hot damp skin there. “Can I now?”

“If I can watch you.” 

In ironic humor Sascha showed his teeth; he had unusually sharp canines and Mischa thought how they might feel digging garish purple bite marks into his skin. “I can’t not jerk off watching you touch yourself.”

Mischa skipped his fingers over Sascha’s skin, slid them perilously along the stark line of his hip before he reached between his own legs to wrap his hand around the base of his cock. With naked hunger Sascha watched him play; it was strange for Mischa to let himself be observed like this in the light; he could be shy for excessive attention and he knew that his face was blooming like a maroon rose under Sascha’s scrutiny because Sascha reached out and smiled and touched the apple of his cheek.

“You’re nervous.” 

Mischa blew out a breath, cut his eyes away. “I don’t make it a habit of letting people straight up watch me fuck my hand.”

Sascha gave that sharp barking surprised laugh. “You’ve let me. A few times now.” 

“You’re usually otherwise occupied.” Mischa gave that finicky half-smile. “Touching yourself or trying to get your hips up against mine. In the dark.”

“Ah.” Comprehension flickered in Sascha’s jade eyes. “It has been dark, hasn’t it.” 

“Mm.” Mischa quirked an eyebrow, teeth grazing at the bottom of his top lip, live wire. He couldn’t understand how now he was anxious for it when just the other night he’d enticed sascha by letting him observe, by licking his own precum from his thumb, but now in the harsh light it was different, it was real. There was no hiding under cover of night like this, no pretending, just the truth. 

Sascha grinned for his anxiety. “Stop. You’re the most beautiful thing in the fucking world and you know it.” He slid his palm slow down over his furious erection, kept his eyes locked to Mischa’s. “I’ll turn the light off if you want.”

“No. I want to see you.” Mischa’s eyes had found their way down to where Sascha’s hand worked lazily around his cock and he was so interested, curious for him. “Plus if you’re a voyeur I’m gonna have to get used to it.”

“Fuck. Please do.” Sascha’s voice was melting gold. “You don’t know, Mischa. Right after it happened I started thinking about walking in on you when I was getting off and it made me come so fast.”

“Same,” said Mischa, shudder in his tone. “So many times. After I’d do it I thought you’d know what I’d been doing just by looking at me.”

“Me too.” Sascha let his unoccupied hand fall to Mischa’s chest, the deep bronze of his skin, where his heart propelled itself violently against his ribcage. “I wanted you to know.”

“I think I did.” Mischa took Sascha’s hand, sucked a long finger into his mouth. Sascha breathed out in a heavy abrupt huff; Mischa understood that this was something he had never experienced and hollowed his cheeks around Sascha’s skin, let him brush the back of his throat with his fingertip. Their eyes were locked, boring deep; spattered like watercolor across Sascha’s canvas face were wonder and explicit arousal and he was positively magnificent. 

Mischa swallowed; Sascha’s eyes waxed like a full moon and he _whined_.

“Mischaaaaaa.”

Mischa loved it when Sascha keened for him; the nerves had gone away by now and he was focused on his brother’s obvious pleasure. “Mmhmm." 

“God damn it.” Sascha’s attention was split between Mischa’s eyes and where he was playing with his erection between them, so close Sascha could have died. The sucking heat around his fingers was unbearable and he could feel his stomach curling with the implication. “I get your oral thing.”

Triumph glinted in Mischa’s eyes; he slid obscenely off Sascha’s finger, kissed the tip. “Eh. Just wait. Also it relaxes me to fuck you up like that. Now you can watch.”

Sascha’s eyes and mouth waxed wide simultaneously; he leaned in, bit Mischa’s bottom lip. “Just wait? Cocktease.”

“Me? Never.” Mischa licked Sascha’s tongue and it was so easy now; he’d found a rhythm and his entire being was on fire with the sensation and Sascha was distracted now, kissing back like Mischa’s mouth was an oasis and he was shriveled with thirst. Astonishing in his fervor.

“Yes. You. Always.” Sascha’s dominant arm was propped against Mischa’s and Mischa could feel the violence with which he was jerking off and he was weak for it. “I think you’re more of a tease than I am, at least verbally.”

The laugh in Mischa’s throat was shaky. “I’m teasing myself too, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sascha’s voice was so deep and Mischa wondered when he had grown up; how he had missed it, he’d been too busy touring the world. “Am I gonna get you on your knees for me when you finally decide to stop dangling yourself in front of me and let me touch you?”

Mischa was bulldozed by how much that thought turned him on; his abdomen quaked involuntarily and Sascha saw the tremor and hissed, “fuck” under his breath. Mischa fisted his hand in Sascha’s hair and slammed their mouths together and the clash of teeth was sharp and strong.

“Do you want that?”

“I think at this point I might commit homicide for that,” said Sascha seriously, and somehow even doing what they were doing they both managed to laugh. Sascha’s veins were starry with that telltale preorgasm tingle and Mischa could taste it on his shuddery breath and he looked Sascha in the eye and grabbed his wrist, slowed him down before eventually halting him.

In confusion Sascha watched him; Mischa made sure Sascha’s eyes were on his hand when he swiped his forefinger over the soaking slit of his own cock, held his hand out with that finger upright, and Sascha thought he understood but he needed confirmation before he could even breathe.

“Now you,” said Mischa, softly, and Sascha exhaled. He ran his thumb over his weeping crown, let his fluid saturate his skin before he raised his hand to Mischa’s lips; by now he understood that this was what Mischa wanted. For them to taste each other, for them to have an understanding of the other’s essence.

Mischa rested his salty finger against Sascha’s lips and Sascha accepted him immediately, the faint sharp taste of his brother’s precum flooding his mouth. When he started sucking gently Mischa whimpered and Sascha understood then that his mouth was a weapon, something to wield if he ever wanted to bring Mischa incapacitated to his knees. He pressed his thumb to Mischa’s bottom lip and when Mischa took it in his mouth his sight went momentarily hazy for it, for Mischa’s tongue wrapping around his skin, for the unguarded expression in his eyes. Their intimacy only solidifying. Around Mischa’s finger Sascha rumbled; Mischa released him, pulled his hand away.

“Taste yourself,” he said, so Sascha did, leapt on him like a cheetah tackling prey after a vicious chase, tongue digging in every corner of Mischa’s mouth to lick himself from inside Mischa’s body. He knew that Mischa was undergoing the same teetering experience because he could feel Mischa shaking and sascha loved it, loved that he could be so bold while he was so uncertain, that he’d fought himself and won. 

They were still making out furiously but they’d resumed their frenetic rhythm and they were leaning into each other and it seemed impossible that they wouldn’t eventually be drawn flush. At the last second Mischa pulled Sascha away from the stream of water and pressed his bird-boned shoulders back against the perpendicular wall and invaded his space, crying out low in his throat, and as Sascha climaxed all over his fingers, down Mischa’s thigh, he felt warm viscous liquid painting his stomach. He bulled down to meet Mischa’s upturned face and they kissed each other shakily through it, breathless, spending their energy with each rocking spasm. Sascha couldn’t imagine things getting much better than this but he thought of Mischa saying _just wait_ and his mind almost shut down like it did when he thought about eternity; it was something he couldn’t comprehend. Blank space.

Mischa smiled into Sascha’s throat, teeth against skin, breathed him. He was quivering. 

“Yes?”

“Yes. Fuck yes.” Sascha put his mouth to the top of Mischa’s head. “It’s the closest thing to touching you right now.”

“Uh huh.” Mischa drew back, found Sascha’s eyes with his own. “You’re the only person I’ve been with who has actively wanted that.”

“What, for you to come on them?” Sascha was stuck on _the only person I’ve been with_ and he knew it showed in his eyes but he didn’t care.

Mischa nodded.

“Really?” Sascha’s nose crinkled. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Mischa shrugged. “It’s a very, very personal thing, you know. Incredibly intimate. I think a lot of people find it unappealing. Like, honestly, there’s no one else I can think of that I would let come on me than you, but that’s because nothing feels off-limits with you. And I fucking love it.”

This last sentence was spoken with zero reservation; he was clearheaded and unveiled now. His seed was cloying on Sascha’s stomach and when he slid his hand across his own thigh he found the sticky evidence that his brother had left and how could he even remember what being embarrassed was like after that?

“You fucking love it, huh,” said Sascha. When he kissed him Mischa could feel the unabashed smile on his open mouth.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

Mischa raised the fingers he’d just dipped in Sascha’s come, smiled. “That’s weird, cause I can’t tell.”

“Will you fuck off?” Sascha swiped his hand away and Mischa laughed out loud, darted back under the steady fall of water to dodge him. “You’re not allowed to give me shit if you won’t even let me rub one out against your thigh.”

Mischa wolf-whistled, momentarily stupefied, but his brain was quick even in a state of surprise and he barked back, “Well, I’m gonna let you rub one out against my cock after the French Open, so.”

Sascha groaned out loud, dropped his water-darkened head back, boneless. “Fuck. You win.”

“Yeah?” Mischa pulled Sascha’s head down, closed his mouth over Sascha’s parted lips; the kiss was so deep they were in danger of returning to square one even with each other’s orgasms still so fresh on their skin. The water was warm, gentle, a wash for their uncleanliness. “You’re being so patient, Sash. I promise you’ll get what you want.”

“All of you, Mischa,” said Sascha fervently, and his words were a flood, torrential. “Everything. And I’m not the only one being patient.” 

Mischa smiled for that, rueful. “I’m the older brother. When you were born patience became my most valuable virtue.” 

“I wasn’t so bad,” protested Sascha.

“Not at all. You were sweet. But mum was busy all the time with you and I wasn’t used to that,” said Mischa. “Then when you figured out who your favorite was, _I_ was busy all the time.”

Sascha grinned. “That didn’t take long.”

“No.” Mischa kissed his jaw, his nose. “You didn’t leave me alone.”

“I idolize you,” said Sascha, softly. “You know that, don’t you? It’s still true. It’ll always be true.”

Mischa swallowed over sudden constriction in his throat, ducked his head, put his hand under Sascha’s sharp chin. He couldn’t speak but he didn’t have to. Sascha knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are taking their SWEET time but Mischa is such a good older brother and he just wants to make sure Sash is ready... ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sascha's dirty and Mischa isn't perfect.

That night Mischa couldn’t sleep, let himself be consumed by nerves, Sascha’s unruly head positioned heavy like a stone at the center of his naked chest. He slid like a swimmer into the river in and out of wakefulness, dreaming of missed alarms and shouting voices and panicked confusion - he was late to his match, the car wouldn’t start, they’d miscalculated the distance from their apartment to the stadium and they wouldn’t be there in time. After fitful hours of this, close to five AM, Sascha stirred to Mischa’s impatient huff and opened his eyes wide.

“Hey. You ok?”

Mischa bit the side of his cheek. “Can’t sleep.”

“Uh huh. Thinking about tomorrow?” Sascha sat up, rested his chin on his hand. Walked long fingers slowly down Mischa’s stomach.

“Yeah.” Mischa was notoriously nervous before Grand Slams; Sascha had spent more than one night up until dawn with him, calming him. The sleep deprivation was rough but they hadn’t started drinking coffee for nothing.

“You’re better than you ever have been, Meesh,” said Sascha. “You know it’s true. You have nothing to worry about.”

Mischa looked at him, smiled, and he meant it. “I think I’ve been so focused on this - you know, whatever this is - that I’m just letting myself play. Like my own expectations of myself have gone way down and because of that I’m completely relaxed.”

Sascha nodded. “Me too. And I’ve been trying to not go insanely overboard with you in front of mom and dad.”

“Yeah.” Mischa slipped fingers through Sascha’s curls, knotted them together, playing. “That’s hard. I don’t think we would be getting away with it if they weren’t used to us being abnormally close.”

“No. We wouldn’t.” Sascha’s mouth pressed at the hollow of Mischa’s chest, between his ribcage. “They don’t notice things, though. You’ve been wearing my cross for a few weeks and neither of them have said anything." 

“They probably think it’s mine,” said Mischa. “They look more or less the same.”

“True.” Sascha rested his chin on the shelf of Mischa’s abdomen, looked up at him with huge puppy eyes rimmed by half-moon shades of gray, linear mouth. “What do you need to sleep? What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” said Mischa, truthfully. “I might just be doomed to an extra cup of coffee today.”

Sascha laughed a bit, through his nose, smiled. “That’s not what you need.”

“What I need is to wear myself out the day before.”

“Take NyQuil before Wimbledon.”

“Then I’ll feel like a marshmallow the next morning.” 

“What does that even mean?” Sascha’s eyes glittered in the dark.

“Like I’m a step slow. Like I can’t focus for the fog in my head,” said Mischa. He skipped his fingers gently down sascha’s spine. “Like I feel when I look at you.”

Sascha raised up, kissed him on the mouth, soft like the silken edges of a feather. “I feel like that too, Meesh.”

Mischa’s blood started singing again, as it did when Sascha was honest about the hard stuff with him, as it in all honesty did when sascha was just _near_ him these days. “This is getting easier, Sash. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

Sascha’s voice was low; there was no timidity in his tone but his hand as it slid down Mischa’s abdomen was shaking. “It should be easy, Mischa. If things are going to be this way, it should be.”

“If things are going to be this way?”

Sascha buried his face in Mischa’s neck. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Mischa, and he didn’t push it because how could he, how could he ask Sascha to say what he himself could barely think: that this was all he wanted, that Sascha was all he thought about, that he couldn’t fathom even wanting a whiff of anyone else because Sash was where it began and ended for him. He tugged at Sascha’s hair, pulled him up; this time their kiss was long and slow and full of sweet heat and Mischa could feel his body stirring in response. Sascha was lying half on top of him, warm against his chest; when he shifted slightly his pelvis came flush against Mischa’s thigh. He was already hard and Mischa was so used to allowing minimal contact that his stomach was instantly afire for the sensation of Sascha’s obvious arousal pressed firmly into him. He swore into Sascha’s open mouth. 

“I should leave you alone,” said Sascha, but his voice was saturated with iniquity and as he spoke he reached up to card his fingers through Mischa’s russet waves of hair and Mischa didn’t believe him for an instant.

Mischa slid his tongue under Sascha’s upper lip and drank the groan that spilled like water from his throat.

“You should.”

“I should.” But Sascha was climbing him now, tossing one pale lanky thigh over Mischa’s hips, settling down into him with one leg on each side and their hard cocks rubbing together through diaphanous cotton as he moved. Mischa shuddered. 

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what.” But Sascha was licking a hot painted line up Mischa’s throat and he knew, he knew, he knew.

Mischa got his hands around sascha’s whipcord waist and squeezed.

“Don’t leave me alone.” 

Sascha’s mouth at Mischa’s ear, hips pulsing down, and Mischa was dying for it, wanted skin on skin. “You need sleep, Meesh.”

“I’m aware,” said Mischa, and he gave a frustrated chuckle. “This is rough, Sash.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Sascha, grinned. “Let me rock you to sleep.”

The thought that Sascha was too young to be this dirty flashed through Mischa’s head but then Sascha was rolling his hips against Mischa’s and it was so good he could have gone blind for it. He felt like a school kid, horny enough to come for the slightest touch, but Sascha against him was sure and fast and the angle at which he moved stimulated the crown of Mischa’s cock with every thrust and he just had to hold on to Sascha's waist and let himself go. He was moving with him and bucking up and across Sascha’s face ecstasy flashed and he smelled like sleep and a little sweat and Mischa buried his face in Sascha’s armpit and inhaled him, his pheromones; they were so strong Mischa could actually taste that sharp calling tang. Sascha rubbed his chin across the top of Mischa’s head and his voice when he laughed was strangled.

“Do I smell good?”

“You smell like sex,” said Mischa on the brink of orgasm, dumb for lust with his stomach already spasming, and Sascha sobbed out a cry then, came hard into the front flap of his boxers, shaking and twitching as Mischa, triggered, lost it too. The edges of his vision were checkerboard black and he knew what he had said but he didn’t care, his ferality was too strong, he could be nothing but honest with Sascha taking his orgasm from Mischa’s body like he was. Even with two layers of cotton between them it felt like the closest they’d ever been to crossing Mischa’s line.

“Like sex,” said Sascha finally, panting, voice like rust.

“Yes.”

“What does that smell like?”

Mischa pulled Sascha’s head down, raised his arm so he could scent the cleft there, intimate. “You’ll learn.” 

“Yeah?” Sascha was silent for a moment and Mischa knew what he was thinking: _from you_? But he couldn’t ask, and Mischa couldn’t specify; not yet. “Does it smell like you do right now?”

“Stronger,” said Mischa carefully. “But yes, essentially, it’s the same.” 

“Mmm.” Sascha rucked his head into the crevice between Mischa’s shoulder and throat. “It’s good. Musky. Kind of like you when you’re fresh off the court.”

Mischa grinned. “Ripe, you mean.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it?” 

Sascha licked into Mischa’s ear, playful, and when Mischa jerked away in surprise they both laughed. “Not to me.”

After that Mischa felt like he’d taken a muscle relaxer, loose limbs and brain fog, and he drifted easily, prone in Sascha’s arms until they awoke to the sound of both of their alarms screeching at once. The sky was dark but there was no rain and the weather was cool and crisp and Mischa couldn’t even feel his exhaustion; he was ready.

*

He was too relaxed when he got on court and he lost the first set 3-6 to Darcis, angry swearing at his box, dark-eyed and thundering. Sascha was biting his tongue off in an attempt to quell his panic and he tried to speak with his eyes when Mischa looked at him but the anger was general and it was making Mischa blind and he went down an early break in the second. When he called for coaching at 3-4 Alex and Irina looked at each other.

“Sascha,” said Irina, “you go. It’s you he needs right now.”

Sascha squeaked, spluttered.

“Me? But – ”

“Go,” said Alex, pushing him up. “He won’t listen to us, you know how he gets when he’s like this. Go. You know what to tell him.”

So Sascha went and when he appeared on court Mischa’s eyes flashed surprise and his heart rate calmed somewhat. In trepidation Sascha knelt before him, put a hand on Mischa’s quivering thigh.

“Mischa,” he said, low. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, Sash,” said Mischa. “Maybe I’m tired? I can’t feel the ball right now.”

Sascha understood immediately why his parents had sent him. When Mischa was angry on court he tuned his parents out and refused to be helped but with Sascha he was different, always different, honest in his helplessness.

“You’re not tired. You’re fine, it’s in your head. You’re half a second off on your backhand,” said Sascha, quickly, getting down to business because he had twenty seconds until time was called. “And you’re too far back on the second serve. He’s giving you nothing. Punish him.”

Mischa looked at him, briefly, as he slugged his water. In their harsh hybrid language he said, “Why are you out here?” 

“Because they knew you would listen to me,” said Sascha in quiet apology.

Mischa looked out at the clay, glinting deep scarlet under the early afternoon sun.

“If I call for coaching again, you come,” said Mischa under his breath. “I want you from now on. I wish I could kiss you for luck.”

“Me too,” blurted Sascha. Awkwardly he squeezed both of Mischa’s thighs and then he stood up and they smacked palms and he hissed, “come on,” and then he was racing back to the stands and Mischa was heading back to war.

Immediately, like it was nothing, Mischa got the break back. He stood with his hands on his hips, panting, looking up at his box while his family screamed for him, and gave one swift nod in sascha’s direction. Alex and Irina slapped Sascha on the back but he couldn’t even feel it, he was so proud, so sure of everything right now. Mischa won the set 6-4 and when he clinched the deciding point he pointed at Sascha.

“This is you, Sash,” he said out loud, when he sat down, and Sascha nodded and smacked his fist over his heart. “This is all you.”

Irina said, beaming, “What did you say to him?”

“Exactly what he needed to hear. Exactly what you would have told him.”

“Except he wouldn’t listen to me. He listens to you,” grumbled Alex, and Sascha smiled, ducked his head to hide it.

“No idea why.”

“Because you aren’t his coach,” said Irina, simply. “But hush, boys, they’re starting again.”

The third set was tight, tight, tight. The first four games went to multiple deuces; at first Sascha was losing his mind trying not to shout out excessively, but he was failing anyway so he went for it. It was okay. Irina and Alex were just as mad for the tension, living and dying with each stroke of the ball. Mischa’s forehand was stronger every point and eventually at 4-3 on serve he went up 30-40 on Darcis’s serve.

“I can’t handle this,” moaned Alex in pieces at the edge of his seat. He was not very stoic in his match observation but both Sascha and Mischa liked that about him, that he was human. “He should be two sets up right now, he’s been playing so well.”

“He’s okay, Dad,” said Sascha calmly. “He’s always nervous first round of a slam, and he doesn’t sleep well. It’s better for him to adjust now than get tight in the later rounds.”

“Wise little Sascha,” said Irina, smiling. “You know him so well, don’t you.”

On court Mischa was bent in half waiting to receive serve; Sascha held his breath and his tongue at the same time and his heartbeat faltered but then Mischa was deep in the point and after twelve strokes he got the break, roaring at his box like a lion to his pride, and Sascha didn’t have to respond to his mother because they were all dancing up and down and hollering and overjoyed. Mischa won his serve in four points and then he was up 3-6 6-4 6-3 and as he walked to his chair he asked the umpire for his coach.

Sascha was already half out of his seat; he’d known Mischa would ask for him now, and he flew like a winged creature down to his brother’s side, dropped to his haunches again, clawing away the urge to grab Mischa’s thighs.

“You don’t need me here,” he said immediately. “You’re doing great. What’s up?”

“Hi,” said Mischa, smiling. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Saving my first round.”

“You have another set to go. Don’t relax yet,” said Sascha, panicking slightly. “You can’t let your guard down.” 

Mischa chuckled. “Calm down _,_ Sash. I’m fine. I just wanted you out here for a second.”

“Okay,” said Sascha. “do me a favor. Drop shot and lob more this set. He’s not quick as it is and he’ll get tired.”

“Noted.” Mischa put his towel to his mouth so his voice was muffled; his eyes were abundantly, preternaturally bright with adrenaline and something else. He looked like a shark lusting for blood. “Sascha.”

“I know,” said Sascha heavily. “One more, come on. Don’t think about it yet, I’m thinking about it enough for both of us. Later.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” Mischa swiped the cloth over his forehead and refocused his gaze, sent it out to the clay, came back to himself. “Thanks again.” 

“Yep. Now go. _Rein, raus_.”

“ _Rein raus_ ,” snarled Mischa, and Sascha bumped knuckles with him and off they went in their separate directions. By the time Mischa got back to the baseline the furor in his blood was loud as a storm and he was back to understanding that he would not lose.

He was correct. He tapped into the mentality he’d held steady for the past few weeks in practice and the fourth set was a breeze, no nerves or excess unforced errors, and when he wrapped it up 6-2 he threw a triumphant silent fist at his box with his mouth set, walked up to the net like he’d never had a doubt. In his veins post-match adrenaline screamed; he could have played another three sets and stayed fresh, he was jumped up on endorphins.

He waited until after press, which was a bit more rigorous than usual because he had beaten a seed, to shower, and when he emerged from the lockers his hair was still soaking wet and he smelled clean as rain. Sascha had to forcefully remind himself that they weren’t alone, that he couldn’t bury his face in Mischa’s neck to breathe him, that he couldn’t get hard now - not now, not while he was vulnerable in gym shorts in front of their parents. Mischa took one look at him and the understanding that passed between them was like an aftershock: palpable, sharp as the smack of two palms together, enough to level the earth around them. He didn’t know how it wasn’t obvious to everyone in the vicinity, how they couldn’t smell the lust, feel the air change. When they embraced Sascha’s hand gripped in his curls for just a millisecond too long. 

“Maybe we should hire Sash as your full time coach,” joked Irina as they all stood together basking in Mischa’s victory. 

“Honestly, he could do it,” said Mischa, grinning when Sascha flushed. “He gave me whatever I needed today.”

“Yeah, well, I expect you to repay the favor in a few days,” said Sascha. He was wearing his glasses and he scrunched his nose to shove them further up on his face; Mischa could not look at him without obviously expressing his fondness so he turned his gaze down at his phone instead.

“Well, our future tennis coach is hitting in fifteen minutes with Dimitrov,” said Alex, grinning. “You need a rest, Meesh. What do you want to do? Go watch him? Scout? Relax at home?”

“Mmm.” Mischa stretched an arm over his head, loose-limbed. “I don’t know. I could honestly stand to get out of here for a while. How long are you wanting to hit, Sash?"

“Not long,” said Sascha, looking slightly crestfallen. “I just need more than the half hour we played earlier.”

“I’ll stay,” said Mischa, smiling for his expression. “I need food, though.”

“I brought you an energy bar and a banana,” said Irina cheerfully. “Then when Sash gets done we can get some real food. Ok?”

“Okay,” said Mischa happily, and he took the snacks that his mother proffered. They trooped down to the teeming practice courts in a collective soaring mood and when they arrived Mischa lay down on one of the benches and stared up at the volatile robins-egg sky. Now that he was not moving the intensity of the match was catching up to him and even on the unforgiving hardness of the bench he thought he could have slept.

Sascha’s face appeared upside-down above him; he was lopsided with his sliding glasses and bright pink bandanna, the purity of his smile. “Sleepyhead.”

“Mmmph.” Mischa groaned, pulled his knees up, worked out his lower back. “I could nap.”

“You’ve earned it,” said Sascha, and there was something tricky in his voice that turned Mischa’s head. In German he said low,

“What else have I earned?”

And Sascha’s cheeks flowered vivid carnation pink as he thought about it. He looked sideways halfway through opening his mouth to speak and had to swallow his words; Dimitrov and his coach were approaching. On tour it was never safe to assume that someone didn’t speak your language; even if a player didn’t, their coach might, so caution was best.

Greetings were exchanged; Alex and Irina mingled with Grigor’s coach and Mischa stayed sprawled on his bench, idly observing the ball being smacked back and forth. In jaunty teasing tones Grigor called him a lazy sonofabitch for not participating after playing a nearly four hour match and Mischa flipped him off, laughing, lulled by the comforting, rhythmic sound of a tennis ball spinning off strings. Sascha was maintaining his level of play and he won the super tiebreaker they played at the end of their practice session, smiled when Grigor’s coach praised him.

“He’s going to be brilliant, this one.”

Sascha ducked his head, but he was pleased, how could he not be. “That’s Mischa.”

“Stop downplaying yourself,” said Mischa loudly from his makeshift bed, without looking over. Against his rational judgment he was thumbing through one of the playlists he’d sent himself from Sascha's phone and he was so deep in the guessing game of _is this about me_?

He was never one hundred percent sure. 

“I’m not,” protested Sascha, but Grigor smacked him on the back, curved one corner of his mouth up as they looked at each other. 

“You’re improving all the time, kid. Keep it up and you WILL be brilliant. Great workout today.”

They packed up their things, said their see-you-laters; Sascha ran ahead to grab a quick shower in the locker room while the rest of the family made the journey to valet to retrieve their car. The snacks had helped but Mischa was starting to drag again and his eyes were lingering, unfocused, blurring out when he looked at the sky. When their vehicle pulled up he climbed heavy into the backseat and collapsed mock-limp across it like a beanbag and he didn’t intend to but he drifted for a few moments, hypnotized by the thrum of the engine and his parents’ faint murmuring voices, the gentle air blowing across his face. When he woke up it was to Sascha opening the car door, chuckling.

“Mischa.”

“Mmmph.”

“Get up, you bum, it’s not nap time yet.”

Mischa groaned without passion, raised his head, pushed himself up with dramatic reluctance. “Sash, please, it’s always nap time if you believe in yourself.”

“Do you want us to drop you off at home and bring back food?” Irina was looking back at Mischa, fondness in her eyes. “Sash said you didn’t sleep well last night, do you need to rest?”

“Honestly, yes,” said Mischa. “I want to shut my brain off for a while.”

“I want to stay too,” said Sascha immediately. “I’d rather chill than explore. We might have to play doubles tomorrow so I should lay low just in case.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go? We were going to go to your favorite little sandwich shop,” said Alex, looking back at him. 

Mischa and Sascha looked at each other fleetingly; they both knew that understanding what was suspicious and what was not was very important now. Usually sascha was always up for adventuring in new cities no matter his schedule; sometimes Irina had to rein him in and force him to relax. If he started skipping excursions too often it would seem strange. 

Mischa said, “Wait, are you talking about that one with the fresh mozzarella?”

“The very same. You liked it too, if i recall,” said Irina. “The atmosphere AND the food.”

After a moment of teetering they both decided to go; Sascha knew he couldn’t get away with avoiding his favorite deli in Paris and Mischa liked it enough to acquiesce, with the condition that they could go home to relax immediately after they ate. Sascha when he realized that Mischa was coming flashed a massive smile into the back of his hand because he knew that part of Mischa’s incentive was to spend more time with him, even if they had to check themselves in front of Alex and Irina, even if all they wanted was to be home alone. They had to take every moment that they could get here because after their off week it would be close to a month until they would be together again.

Neither of them was thinking about it at all.

In the back corner of the little deli they tucked themselves into a booth and took their time eating; Mischa got a cappuccino and drank an entire bottle of water in under two minutes and came gradually back to life as they sat and watched the city life progressing past them out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Alex had printed the doubles draw and was perusing it silently as he ate; Irina had counseled him beforehand that Mischa would be in no mood to assess right after his first round, and she was right. After matches, even if it was only for a few hours, Mischa had to take a break from tennis and today was no different. He was reclined back against the booth with his arm flailed back behind Sascha’s seat and he was aware of his brother, every inch, the solidity of him, how he sighed and wriggled and bounced his long leg under the table. They had fucked around twice in less than twenty-four hours but it was so new and they had fought themselves against the attraction for so long and Mischa thought he could spend all day exploring Sascha’s body without cease. He wanted to put his mouth on the light patch of hair that arrowed down into Sascha’s shorts, wanted to match their hips flush and move together with his tongue in Sascha’s ear until Sash was groaning for it, incoherent in his lust. Wanted to drink from the stream of precum that so easily wept from Sascha’s slit. Without thinking he turned his head and caught Sascha’s cheerful light eyes and he knew his unholy thoughts were broadcasting onto his face because Sascha’s expression went shocked and he looked like he was about to choke on his food. Mischa tried to blink away the black in his eyes.

“They’re making the schedule now,” said Sascha, swallowing as he looked down at his phone, subtle undercurrent of emotion in his voice. “Tournament director sent out a mass email that it would be done by the end of the hour. Do you think we’ll play?”

“Maybe. Usually if you tell them you don’t have a preference they’ll put you on the first possible court,” said Irina. She looked up at him, cocked her head. “Sash, are you okay?” 

“Me? Yeah. Why?” Under the table Sascha’s knee jumped; Mischa knocked his leg gently against it to quell him.

Irina shrugged. “You had a look.” 

“Oh. I got a strong onion,” said Sascha, holding up his sandwich. “This place doesn’t skimp. So if we do play tomorrow, do we have to practice doubles tonight?” 

“That’s up to your brother,” said Alex, with a prim little glimmer in his eyes.

“Daaaaaaad. Don’t put this on me.” Mischa dropped his head back, laughed. “You’re both gonna guilt me into it anyway.”

Sascha held his hands up. “I’m not saying a word.” 

“Hopefully,” said Irina, in the strong tone of voice that meant she wouldn’t tolerate arguing, “your strength will come back once you rest, Meesh. Now let’s hurry up so we can go relax in case you do need to hit again.”

*

“She just wanted to come back so she could use the jacuzzi,” said Sascha half an hour later as he and Mischa sprawled loose-limbed and long on Mischa’s bed, luxuriating in their inertia. The minute they’d gotten home Irina had disappeared into her room with a bath bomb and Alex had followed her with vague mutterings about reading on their balcony. Sascha and Mischa didn’t waste time thinking about it; they welcomed any excuse to disappear undetected into their bedroom for snatched golden moments of solitude.

“Who, Mum? Probably.” Mischa smoothed Sascha’s fringe away from his forehead; his face when he craned to look back was open and lovely. “They’ll never buy it if you say you’d rather rest than go with them into the city.”

“I know. I wasn’t thinking.” Sascha blew his hair back in place, smiled when Mischa huffed at him. “Shut up, it’s my security blanket. Anyway, you came with me, so I got what I wanted. I just want to be near you.” 

“Me too. Although it drives me insane.”

“Uh huh. That look you gave me in the cafe...” Sascha shivered, a delicate thing completely outside the realm of his control. “You looked like you wanted to...you know. What were you thinking about?”

Mischa laughed. “I’m not sure you want me to tell you.”

“You say that every time, but you forget that I make playlists about trying to guess your thoughts,” said Sascha with long-suffering patience. “If this whole thing was up to me, you’d know what it felt like to have your cock against mine, and you wouldn’t have to just fantasize about it.”

Mischa _rrrrr_ ed from his chest, snapped teeth at Sascha’s ear; he was smiling despite himself. “I have some idea.”

“You don’t know how my skin feels.” Sascha’s voice was light and spritelike, taunting.

“I know how you feel in so many places,” said Mischa, and he slipped a treacherous hand up Sascha’s shirt, stroked thumb and forefinger over his belly, glowed for the quiver of skin. “You feel amazing, Sash. I can only imagine.”

“I think about what it’ll be like all the time,” whispered Sascha. “I’ve never had anyone drive me crazy like you before.” 

Mischa kissed his sun-chapped lips. “Lucky for you I know every single way to get under your skin.” 

Sascha slapped his hand over Mischa’s wrist, turned his head, bared his teeth. “Truly.”

“How did you know what to say to me? During my match?”

“You let me be the voice in your head when yours is fucking you up,” said Sascha simply. “Just like you always do for me when I get pissed in practice or whatever.” He rolled to his side, propped himself on bone, pushed up his brother’s t-shirt so he could touch skin, too. Mischa was warm, flushed all over, interested; he scooted closer and Sascha let him lick between his lips, taste inside of his mouth. He dropped his fingers to the waistband of Mischa’s shorts, opened his palm like a sunflower to its namesake, purred.

“I think you should be my coach for the rest of the tournament,” said Mischa, every one of his nerve endings focused on Sascha’s hand at the top of his pelvis.

“I think I should be your coach forever so I never have to go to a different city than yours,” said Sascha, his eyes aflame with the fervor of his words.

“I’d allow it,” said Mischa. “But what if we played at the same time?”

“What if we played each other?"

Mischa smiled. “One day we will, _liebling.”_

“Just don’t cry when I beat you,” said Sascha, but he was grinning; Mischa rolled on him and they grappled, tickling, throwing elbows, unable to catch their breath from laughing. Finally Mischa pinned sascha’s arms above his head and settled heavily down against him. Put his nose to Sascha’s cheek and kissed the faint constellation of freckles there.

“Getting tan, Sash.” 

“You too.” Sascha squirmed; he could feel Mischa getting hard and he was too, powerless for the sensation of Mischa against him. “Mmmph. Meesh.”

“Uh huh.” Mischa stamped wet kisses along Sascha’s jawline, sighed out loud. “Want you all the time, Sash.” 

Sascha purred; blood surged to his cock. “Me too. I want you to let me lick you everywhere.”

“Mmm.” Mischa’s little groan was growl-deep but it was tinged with humor. “Weird that you know how to talk like this.”

“Weird? Is that what you think?” Sascha rucked his hips up and Mischa chuckled, caught. “I’m sixteen. I’ve watched porn, you know.”

Mischa snorted. “They don’t speak so poetically in the porn that I’ve seen.”

“Then maybe it’s just my own idea,” said Sascha, low.

“Oh I like it,” said Mischa, kneading sascha’s palms down, keeping his hips still. “But you’re my little brother first, and this is going to be, you know. An adjustment.”

“I know,” said Sascha. “I’ve been looking at you sideways for ages and I still remember you carrying me around on your back and tucking me in at night.”

Slowly he curled his fingers around Mischa’s own, watched the way Mischa’s eyes caught the drifting sunlight, arresting in their splendor.

Mischa asked quietly, “When did you know?” 

Sascha’s eyes slid prettily out of focus; he licked at his lower lip while he went back into deep memory, contemplative. “When did I know, or when did I first look at you twice?”

“Either. Both. Tell me everything.”

Sascha smiled, pleased. “I can’t even remember when I started seeing you differently. You’ve always been beautiful to me. I’ve always been so proud of who you are and what you are to me because you’re perfect, Mischa.” Slowly his face took on that heated sneaking flush, pink like a sunset hue, vivid. “Maybe when I was twelve or thirteen. There was one day that you came in from practice and you didn’t have a shirt on and you were sweating and angry because you didn’t think you’d played well and I saw you before you did me and I couldn’t stop looking at you. You were so mad but you noticed me and you smiled and let me hug you. That was when I realized I liked your scent. I just didn’t know what to do or think about any of it.”

Mischa was still thinking about _perfect_. “I remember that day. We were in Hamburg.”

“Yes.” Sascha shifted, the hem of his shirt slid up and against his hip Mischa could feel the smooth valley of skin there. He wanted them shirtless, wanted them naked, wondered if he’d keep the promises he’d made to himself. “The day I really started thinking about it, though. We were in Florida and it was so hot and we’d been practicing for hours. You brushed up against me at the net and I felt your skin and, fuck. I felt like I’d been electrocuted. And the way you looked at me made me think you felt it too.”

“Fuck. I did. That was the day for me.” Mischa shook his head. “You were fifteen.” 

“I know,” said Sascha, and he grinned. “But i knew how to make sure you looked back at me.”

“All those shirtless Skype sessions.” Mischa kissed Sascha’s mouth, fell limply off him just so he couldn’t tempt himself further. “And somehow we kept sleeping in the same bed without doing anything.”

“Yeah. I thought about it all the fucking time, though.” 

“You used to jerk off next to me.”

Sascha smirked. “So you did notice.” 

“Um, yes.”

“I wasn’t sure.” Flippant.

“You had no shame.” 

“I still have no shame.” Sascha ran his palm down Mischa’s stomach, his thigh. Slid a leg between Mischa’s knees and lined them up so they were pressed together. “Will you teach me how to touch you? When I’m allowed?”

Mischa picked up on the sass that dripped from that last sentence. “Brat. You already know how to touch me.”

“You know what I mean.” Sascha put his mouth to Mischa’s throat, swiped his tongue at the skin there, hungry. “How to make you cum.”

Mischa’s voice when he spoke was restrained. “It won’t be hard. I cum just thinking about you. When you touch me it’s all over.”

“Earlier today,” said Sascha slowly, “you asked me what else you had earned.”

Mischa’s blood was flashing through his veins; he could feel it hammering at his pulse points, through his hot lower stomach. “I did.”

Sascha smiled. “If we win our first round,” he whispered, “is that good enough for you then? Will we have waited long enough?”

Mischa rolled his neck back. “Sash...”

Sascha got up on his elbow, looked Mischa in the eye. “I’m not above begging, you know."

Mischa stared back at him, unwavering. “Promise me it won’t affect you.”

“Mischa, you know I can’t promise anything,” said Sascha, fiercely. “I’d never let you take that upon yourself, because if I lost, you would. All I know is we’ve both been playing like beasts since we started this thing and I want whatever you’ll give me and I don’t fucking care. Who does it hurt if I don’t win the junior French? I’ve got all the time in the world to win slams, but after our off week we’re gone for a month. I want you more than I want anything else in the world and I just want you to fucking touch me.”

Mischa gazed at him fondly, swiped his hair back behind his ear, looked away and swore under his breath. “All right,” he said at last. “Even if we don’t win. We can.”

Sascha closed his mouth over Mischa’s and they kissed and kissed and when the knock on the door came it was an absolute intrusion. With his heart flailing against his chest Mischa slid to the floor by the bed, grabbed his phone, managed to unlock it before the knob turned. Sascha had time to flip on his stomach and close his eyes, even out his breathing but his pulse was thrashing and his brain was so, so loud.

_caught you’re going to get caught you’re going to_

“Hey,” said Alex, whispering as he poked his head in. “Is Sash asleep?”

Still with the taste of Sascha in his mouth Mischa turned to look at his brother, prone on the bed. “Uh, yeah, I guess. What’s up?”

“Have you seen the schedule?”

“No.” Mischa held up his phone, stonefaced like an Easter Island head. “I’ve been watching Netflix. What’s up, do we play tomorrow?" 

“Nope,” said Alex, smiling. “Off day. But you’re first on for singles again on Wednesday, and you’ll play doubles in the late afternoon.”

“Oh, sweet.” Mischa’s heartbeat was normalizing; he leaned back and pushed Sascha’s thigh. “Hey. Wake up.”

Sascha groaned, piling it on. “Mmmph.”

“Sash.” Mischa poked him, grinning. “Schedule is out.”

Sascha cracked one brilliant eye, licked his lips to stop himself from grinning. “When are we on?”

“Wednesday,” said Alex. “Which means you’re free for the rest of the day. Do you want to keep resting or are you ready to go out into the city?”

“Mmm.” Sascha stretched like a jungle cat; if Mischa had not known what they had just been doing, he would have been thoroughly convinced of his warm, sweet exhaustion. “Let’s go out for dinner.”

“Yes. We can go to the shops or a museum or something before,” said Mischa, “but I wanna stay here for a while. This feels great.”

“That’s what we were thinking. There’s a bookshop a few streets down that your mum was eyeing the other day. She’s still in the bath but we might head out in an hour or so if you two will be ready by then. If not you can meet us later.” Alex smiled at them. “We’ll come check on you before we leave. I’m proud of you, Mischa. You too, Sash.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Mischa, touched. Their father was often very stoic; because of this when he gifted them with praise it meant so much more than it might have had he been free with it.

“Yeah, thank you,” echoed Sascha, soft in the face, the voice. “We’ll keep it up.”

“I know,” said Alex, and he smiled again before he retreated, shut the door. Listening to his soft footfalls fade away to the other side of the flat Sascha and Mischa sat with restrained breath before they both exhaled, shook their heads, looked at each other.

“I told you we’d get reckless,” said Sascha.

“That’s part of why I’ve been trying to make us stick to boundaries,” said Mischa, rubbing a hand hard over his face, through his hair. He put his face down to his knees and blew out a breath and swore out loud, _fuck fuck fuck_ raw in his throat. Sascha threaded his long fingers through Mischa’s hair, scraped down gently so he shuddered. 

“Do you think we should wait until our off week to proceed?”

Weakly Mischa chuckled for his terminology. “We’re honestly doing well to get away with as much as we are now.”

Sascha sighed. “I know. At night is the best time. They never know when we lock our door then and we’ve already said that there’s not a good enough reason to do it during the day.” He lowered his voice, mocking. “Yeah, sorry the door was locked, guys, we were just jerking off together. Hang on while we clean up. Also together.”

Mischa grinned into his knees; Sascha felt it in the way the air changed, became saturated with sunshine. “We’re a fucking disaster, Sash.” 

“Do you feel guilty?”

Mischa raised his head, hard and quick like a whipcrack. “No. Do you?”

“Still no,” said Sascha, smiling at one side of his mouth, little comma quirk. “Not at all. I’m happy to resume, as a matter of fact. We have an hour till he barges in again, by God.”

Mischa’s laughter now was genuine. “Maybe. Unless Mum decides she needs to come discuss the plan with us, too.” 

Sascha’s eyes curved back into his head. “They’re too much sometimes.”

“They’re only too much when I’m trying to grind you into the bed in peace.”

Sascha choked. “I got away with it this morning.”

“Because it was, what, five am?” Mischa smiled, yawned hard. “Speaking of that. I actually could use a nap.”

Sascha gave a low little warble of protest. “Can I cuddle you until you fall asleep?”

Mischa looked at him, eyes warm and molten with affection; he was used to Sascha being his little cheerful shadow and it was so much more intense now that they were fucking around. The need between them was tangible: they had to be close all the time, always in contact whether by voice or touch or look, it wasn’t just Sascha who was clinging.

Mischa sucked Sascha’s cross into his mouth, clacked it sharp and frustrated between his teeth.

“Yes,” he said. “But you can’t fall asleep. You have to move to your bed after twenty minutes so they don’t catch us.”

“Okay,” said Sascha, nodding zealously.

Mischa got up on his knees, faced the bed. “Promise me, Sash. You know I can sleep through tornados when I’m out. I won’t wake up right away if they knock.”

“I promise,” said Sascha immediately. “Get up here.”

So Mischa unraveled himself and climbed back up into bed, let Sascha get his fingers under the hem of his shirt. Pulled it up over his head and fell supine with one thigh tucked between Sascha’s legs, hand at his brother’s cheek, trailing fingers over his skin. It was like this that he dozed, Sascha’s breath warm and even on his face, safe and content. When Sascha kept his oath and moved to the other bed he didn’t stir, and when Alex and Irina poked their heads in to ask whether they wanted to tag along both he and Sascha were sound asleep on separate beds.

When Mischa awoke again it was to the soft autumnal light of early evening and Sascha’s front pressed against his back, hot layer of sweat between them, cradled in silence like a cocoon. Mischa spoke his brother’s name and Sascha stirred.

“Hey.”

“Hey. How long did I sleep?”

“Mmm. Dunno. Just woke up.” Sascha was bleary, fuzzy at his edges, happy. “Mum and Dad left. I locked the door cause I didn’t care.”

Mischa smiled for his sleep-dopey tone. “Me neither. This is nice.”

Sascha stretched against him, purred. “You’re warm.”

“Probably dreaming about you.” Mischa pulled sascha’s arm across him, braided their fingers together. “Or, you know. You’re pressed up against me like that, so.”

“Mmhmm.” Sascha pushed his hair back from his forehead; his hair was dark and slightly damp with sweat. “Couldn’t resist.”

“You never can.” Affectionately. 

“Neither can you.”

“You won’t hear me denying it.” Mischa kissed Sascha’s fingertips, first his thumb, ended with his pinky. “I want this every day. Wanna wake up to you like this.” 

Sascha smiled, bright as neon. “Stop, you’re making me blush.” Half sarcasm in his lovely voice, but then he lowered it and pulled Mischa in to him. “We need our own place, Meesh.”

Mischa felt his blood tingle for the thought. “We could actually make that happen, you know. Once we both start making a little more money on tour.”

Sascha’s body started HUMMING; Mischa could feel him shaking and there was no other way to describe it. “Yeah? For real?”

“Yeah. I mean, we’re gone all the time, so it’s kind of a waste of money right now. But eventually, you know. It won’t be.”

“But just imagine,” said Sascha, dreaming. “Even if we have tournaments in different cities. We could meet back at our house for, like, at least one day a week. That would be fucking wild.”

“So we both improve,” said Mischa slowly, “we both start making bank. We make enough to get a place. Even if it’s small.”

“It could be a shack on the beach with a mattress and a shower and I’d be happy,” said Sascha, flatly. “Cause it would be ours.”

Mischa rolled to face him, tilted his chin up, gazed at him with eyes like searchlamps. “That would make you happy?”

“Mischa, _yes,”_ said Sascha, emphatically. “I want to come home to you and know it’s only you waiting for me. And like, a dog, maybe, if we want that. That would make me the happiest.”

Mischa stroked his thumb across the straight ray of Sascha’s cheekbone, smiled, all soft. “I would love that. I thought about us moving in together even before we got started with this, like forever ago. We would be living the sweet life.”

Sascha beamed. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Sash, you’re my best friend. Who else would I live with?” Mischa raised one shoulder to his ear, dropped it. “Besides, I’m getting to the age where Mum and Dad should want to kick me out anyway, so I have an excuse. And they know I’ll take care of you.” 

Sascha quirked one naughty eyebrow even though he was still thinking of _you’re my best friend._ “Yeah you fucking will.” 

Mischa shoved his shoulder, rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Shut up. So. You tell me. Are we too reckless? Do you want to wait?”

“No,” said Sascha immediately. “I’d let you right now.”

Mischa stilled. “Let me what?”

A slow, sweet flush blossomed across Sascha’s face; this was one of the things about him that Mischa was enamored with, that he could talk such a huge game and back off when confronted with it. Bashful. “You know.”

“I don’t, actually.” Mischa pulled Sascha’s cross to his lips, licked it in. The click of teeth against metal reverberated in his skull and he realized he’d barely taken a breath since Sascha had said _let you_. He knew where his own head was and he was so apprehensive about it but he couldn’t stop revisiting that colorful fantasy, Sascha riding him with his mouth dropped wide, all wild curls and glitchy moans and half-lidded eyes. Mischa’s hands curled around his whippet waist, delirious with pleasure, buried to the hilt and almost blacked out from lust.

Sascha kissed him. “I know that you do, because I’ve told you.”

Mischa kissed back, lazy, more affection than need. “Taking it slow isn’t a bad thing, Sash.”

“I know,” said Sascha. “But everything with you is so good, Mischa. Of course I’m going to want more.”

“Yeah,” said Mischa, low, mouth at Sascha’s throat. “Yeah, I know. I’m dying, Sash, don’t think I’m not. I’m not used to waiting.” 

“Then don’t.”

Mischa threw him a look. “Alexander.” 

Sascha grinned, caught out, he loved it when Mischa got firm. “Mikhail. I think you think I don’t know what I’m asking.” 

“I have an idea,” said Mischa, measured, and their eyes met. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

Sascha kept his gaze steady. “Mischa, do you know me?” 

“Better than anyone. Or at least I like to think so.”

“Right. So. Am I immature?”

“No.” 

“Do you think I act my age?”

“No, Sash,” said Mischa, patiently. They had had this conversation before and he knew what Sascha was getting at.

“Then there’s your answer,” said Sascha, gently. “You have to trust me, Mischa. I know what I want. I’m not just a kid.”

“I know, and I know we keep coming back to that. But Sash, you don’t know what it’s like,” said Mischa, and he looked at the ceiling, shook his head. “You’re my kid brother, you’ve never had sex, you’ve never even gotten head. You know that if we keep going things are going to naturally progress.” 

He said all this with caution, unable to look Sascha in the face, thinking of being inside of him, thinking of Sascha knelt before him, worshiping at his altar with that cross burning around his throat. Blasphemous, sacrilegious, unholy.

“ _If_ we keep going, he says,” Sascha said, and he snorted. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“So you know that I would be your first for a lot of things.”

“Yes. God. Yes. Mischa, I dream about it,” said Sascha, furiously. “I think about how your mouth would feel, how you would taste. I’d die for you to be my first. I’d die for you to be my only, honestly. I don’t want anyone else but you. There’s literally no one for me but you, and there never will be. Not after this.” 

Mischa fisted his hands in Sascha’s hair, held their foreheads together, closed his eyes.

“There never will be for me, either. It’s only you.”

After that there was a lot of kissing, a lot of silence, a lot of skin on skin. It still wasn’t enough but there was nothing coming between them now and Mischa knew that he would never be able to return from this. It was Sascha, it was only Sascha, for the rest of his life, and they had been coming to this and coming to this for months. Whatever this was, it was happening now, nothing holding them back, just time and time and time. They were still dancing around actually clarifying what would happen but _you have my permission to do whatever_ was the only way Sascha knew how to say it right now and Mischa understood with a sharp photograph-clarity that he would be the one to take Sascha’s virginity. He didn’t know when it would happen but the responsibility was his; he had been given permission, whatever he wanted.

It scared him how much he wanted it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mischa likes making Sascha wait.

They took their leisure getting ready to go out; there was no way they could be quick about anything when they had an empty flat and hours of shining daylight to play with. With their limbs and their fingers tangled they remained luxuriant in bed for some time and Mischa wanted to give in so badly, wanted to peel Sascha’s shorts from his hips and feel him everywhere, how flawless he was, how ready. Because he was ready, oh yes; Mischa could see it in his glassy eyes, feel it in the fierceness with which Sascha clutched at him. It wasn’t for lack of release that they were both so needy; they were having mutual orgasms on a regular basis now, but there was such a palpable desire to get closer that they wouldn’t be fully satisfied until they could take it further. Mischa thought he could have spent days in bed with Sascha; it was like they were in heat, when they finally got started he had no idea how they’d be able to stop.

Eventually Mischa, delirious, pulled them out of bed to try to refocus his attention, but Sascha was so hard and so wanton and he got Mischa immediately up against the wall and pinned his hands down at his sides and rolled his hips slow against Mischa’s own, mouth at his ear, all hot breath. When Mischa opened his eyes they were black, pupils blown from desire. He was strong and he flipped them easily, held Sascha so his spine was flat to the wall, knee up between his lean shaky thighs searching him out, and Sascha rode his leg moaning until Mischa stilled him. Licked into his wet bruised mouth. The heat between them was indecent. 

“Fuck, Sash,” he spat, because his mind was out of control, he was without restraint. “Fuck, so goddamn hot. I can’t handle you when you moan for me like that.”

Now Sascha was the one entrenched in delirium; his eyelids were half mast and they flickered when he found Mischa’s gaze. For once he wasn’t doing it deliberately to tease, he was rendered helpless for the incapacitating grind of Mischa’s knee against his cock. “I can’t help it. Feels so good, Meesh.” He dropped his head to the side so his hair fell in his eyes, cross askew on his bare chest, shuddered. “I didn’t know I could stay so fucking turned on like this. Like I cum and immediately want more. Can’t think about anything else.”

Mischa smiled, kissed him slow, let him ruck down again on his thigh. “I’m the same. That off week is going to be something.”

“Is it like this with everyone you’ve been with?” Sascha’s voice was a gasp, wrecked as he took his pleasure from Mischa’s leg. “Is this normal?”

Mischa paused, drew back so he could look at Sascha’s face when he spoke. “No, Sash,” he said quietly. “This isn’t normal. At least not for me.”

Sascha blinked, woozy; swallowed.

“I didn’t think so.”

Mischa slid his hands down to Sascha’s tiny hips, dug thumbs in, kneaded. “Yeah. Like, not even close.”

Sascha was floating in his haze of surreal all-encompassing lust but he was coherent enough to know that this was monumental. “What does that mean?" 

“I don’t know,” said Mischa. “It means we’re insane for each other. It means it’s better with you than it has been with anyone else.”

“Mischa, we’ve barely even done anything,” said Sascha, wonder in his voice. “What’s it going to be like when we...”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” said Mischa, and when Sascha turned his head to look at him he was grinning.

“Oh, you don’t.”

“Nah. I might not live up to your hype."

Sascha grinned; his sharp wolf teeth gleamed. “You not live up to my hype? I’m brand new at this. I don’t know how to do anything.”

“You know how to get yourself off, right?”

“Yeah. That and kissing. Nailed it,” said Sascha, deadpan, and Mischa smiled.

“If you know how to get yourself off, you know how to get me off.”

Sascha slid his tongue up to rest in the middle of his top lip, _mmmm_ in the back of his throat.

“You’re not wrong.” 

“It’s one of the many perks about us,” said Mischa, and he grinned. “No guessing about how to properly do something you already do on the reg.”

Sascha felt his face go warm. “Mischaaaaaa.”

“Yup.” Mischa kissed him on the nose. “We should go meet Mum and Dad. They’ll be wondering, it’s been hours.”

Sascha widened his eyes at him in disbelief. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

He gestured helplessly down at himself; his cock was agonizingly hard, pressed nearly flat up against his stomach under his gym shorts. Mischa had to stop himself reaching out to grab him, stroke him slow, feel for himself just how ready his little brother was to be touched. He knew the look in his eyes was telling because Sascha’s face reflected his desire.

“You want to,” he breathed, “I know you want to touch me.” 

Mischa nearly bit his tongue off trying not to moan out loud.

“You can’t do this to me, Sash.”

It was astonishing how Sascha’s confidence ebbed and flowed; right now, it was full like the great spherical moon, overpowering. “Actually, I can do this to you, because you make me want to beg on my knees every single god damned day. You’re killing me. I want you to get me off.”

“I know,” said Mischa, rusty voice and burning eyes. “I know. Soon, my little love. But you’ve got to admit that torture is a form of pleasure, too.”

Sascha narrowed his eyes. “That’s _your_ kink. Making me wait.”

“And myself.” Mischa winked. “It’s fun to be turned on in public knowing what you’ll do about it later.” 

“If we go out like this I’m gonna be hanging all over you,” said Sascha, keening slightly. “I’m dying, Mischa.” 

He slipped a hand down the front of his shorts, slid his thumb over his slit like Mischa had taught him to do; he was indecently wet. He didn’t even have to offer before Mischa was coming to him, sucking the slick from his skin, eyes wide locked to Sascha’s own as he did. When he popped off Sascha’s thumb he said,

“Always leaking for me.”

“Because you tease me like this,” whined Sascha, and Mischa pulled back from him with his wicked smile. 

“Trust me. If you wait for me right now you have my full permission to do your worst in public.” 

“You want to see what we can get away with.”

“Not exactly,” said Mischa. “We’re both smarter than that. But you’re also smart enough to know that you don’t have to be obvious to make me insane.”

So Sascha, with approximately five brain cells left in his actual head, groaned and pushed himself off the wall and by the time they were dressed and ready he had half-normalized and he could see the merits of tantalizing each other in public. At any rate they were going to have to get used to it: there was nothing they could do about their situation except improvise and adapt. They were both naturally very affectionate with all of their loved ones so it wouldn’t be as difficult to hide as it might have been had they been the kind to shy away from physicality. 

Before they walked out of the front door Mischa pulled Sascha gently into him and kissed his plum lips.

“Your mouth, Sash.”

“What about it?”

“You look like you’ve been doing a lot of kissing.”

Sascha’s eyes cracked with panic. “Are they going to know?”

“No, _liebling_. Relax. Could just as easily be a sunburn.” Mischa kissed him again, on his nose and his cheeks this time, quelled his panic. “I can’t stop looking at you.”

“Because of my mouth?”

“Because of your everything. Come on.”

Mischa turned to the door but Sascha pulled him back laughing and they grappled, kissed again, fell into each other. It was too easy to let themselves get stranded when they were like this: hours felt like seconds and days felt like minutes; this was all they wanted to do.

“It’s fucking impossible to get anything done with this,” said Sascha into Mischa’s mouth, and he could feel him grinning.

“Wait until the off week.”

“Wait until this, wait until that,” complained Sascha, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

Mischa laughed out loud. “How long had you been thinking about kissing me before you actually did it?”

Sascha blinked. “God. Ages. More than a year, with increasing frequency.” 

“And how did it feel when you finally kissed me?”

“Uh. Amazing.” Sascha shook his head. “I don’t know how to even describe it. Like, better than winning a tournament.”

Everything was easier to understand if they talked about it in terms of tennis; tennis was normal, something they could explain and grasp and fully comprehend. Something no one could label as _taboo_ ; it was the most beautiful game. “So it was worth the wait, then.”

“Are you joking?” Sascha pulled him in, kissed his mouth. “Don’t kill me for the overused line I’m about to give you, but I’d wait forever if I had to.”

“There you go.” Mischa melted for him, supine in Sascha’s bronzed branch-thin arms. “I love you, Sash.”

“I love you too, Mischa,” said Sascha, and his voice was low, low, low, rife with that strong implication. _In love_ , but they weren’t saying it. They didn’t know how.

*

So it was that once again they entered public territory with a complete lack of fruition. By now they were old pros, relying on tricks and distractions to take their minds from the endless need that shrieked in their blood. Sascha’s fingernails wrecking the printed damageable skin of his palms, Mischa snapping the rubber band at his wrist until it went raw from friction. Their eyes finding each other’s faces only to dance away, caught, reluctant to linger should the seething desire that curled between them become apparent to anyone observing.

They were smart, but they were also young men, and they were not without judgment flaws. Sascha had not lied when he’d said that if Mischa didn’t let him finish he would be hanging off of him all day, although it was in a far tamer way than it might have been. They joined their parents in their quest for tiny unusual shops on the surrounding streets and every time Mischa lingered in front of a shelf to inspect its contents Sascha would loom up behind him, press his front flush to Mischa’s back, crook his elbows on Mischa’s shoulders and lean into him. Instantaneously Mischa was warm all over for this every time and he would close his eyes for as long as he could get away with, inhale deeply in pursuit of Sascha’s scent, rain-fresh and faint in the air. After the third occurrence of this, Sascha’s forefinger like a windshield wiper at the nape of Mischa’s neck, Mischa rumbled low in his throat. Looked around for bystanders, their parents at the front of the shop.

“Sascha." 

“Mischa.” Sascha’s voice with heavy with want. “Relax. I can feel those knots in your shoulders.”

Mischa tried to breathe but every time he inhaled he felt more and more of Sascha’s flat ridged abdomen scraping his back and he was no longer a body, just a cloud of red, red want. “I did this to myself, didn’t I.” 

“Yep.” Mischa could tell Sascha was amused; the buoyancy of his voice was like helium, uplifting. “I just wanted to cum on you.” 

“ _Alexander_.”

“ _Mikhail_.”

“Shut up or I’m gonna throw you up against this wall and let you grind on my thigh till you explode.”

“Mm. There’s nothing I’d like more.” Sascha leaned forward and for one stomach-plummeting instant Mischa thought he was going to put his mouth to Mischa’s ear, but he was reaching forward to grab something from the shelf, a little crystal ball inches from Mischa’s line of sight. Disentangling himself, Sascha stepped to the side, shook his curls out of his eyes, grinned. “Can you see my future, Meesh?”

Mischa breathed, snatched the sphere from Sascha’s hands. He checked the front of the store; Alex and Irina were shoulder-to-shoulder poring over a dusty old book that looked as though it belonged in the sixteenth century. Always distracted, their parents, and he was never more grateful because he had to reach between his legs and adjust himself, worked up from Sascha’s proximity. “I can see mine. So, yeah, I guess I can see yours, too.”

“Oh god.” Sascha made a face; he knew Mischa was about to be troublesome, alerted by the starry glint in his eye. “Get it over with.”

“I can see a big room. The walls are really rustic, kind of like a cabin, and the windows are wide open. You’re there, and you’re backed up against the door,” said Mischa in that rough spitting mixture of German and Russian, scraping fingers around the crystalline width of the ball. “You’ve got this - expression on your face.”

“Uh huh,” said Sascha. His Adam’s apple was trembling; Mischa knew he was turned on. “And where are you in this scenario?”

Mischa looked away from his futuristic facade, smiled sharp like a jaguar. “On my knees in front of you,” he said just below the surface of his breath. “Letting you fuck my mouth.”

Sascha’s face went white. He had to throw his forearm out to lean on the shelf for support, he wasn’t accustomed to filthy talk because he’d never done it with anyone before Mischa and never as blatant and public as this. Air seethed in and out through his nostrils; he was debased. “Misch _aaaaaa_.”

Mischa smirked. “You asked for it.”

“Boys,” called Irina from the front. She’d looked up when Sascha had raised his voice and was watching them, amused. “Are you causing a scene?" 

“No, Mum,” said Mischa, sweet as saccharine, eyes angel-light while he replaced the crystal ball on its little nook. “I read Sascha’s fortune and he didn’t like it. He’s fine, he’s just whiny.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had a psychic in the family,” said Irina, grinning as she and Alex joined them in the back of the crooked little store. “What did you see?”

“I saw French food for dinner in his future,” said Mischa, smooth like silk, wiggling his fingers in Sascha’s hazy eyes. “He wasn’t happy with that. Apparently he wanted Japanese. I told him I’m just the medium, I can’t change what the spirits tell me.”

Sascha laughed out loud despite himself, bit _fuck off_ from the end of his tongue, hard as iron still thinking about Mischa sucking his cock. He cleared his throat. “He’s a lousy psychic. I have the power to change where we eat for dinner if I say pretty please.”

“I don’t know, baguettes and escargot sound pretty good,” said Irina seriously, winking at her youngest son. “Maybe Mischa really can see the future.”

Mischa raised both shoulders. His face was laughing at Sascha, his obvious discomfort. “Yeah, come on, Sash. I have the gift.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Sascha pushed himself away from the shelf, stood with one leg in front of the other so he could disguise himself, how hard Mischa had made him. “Are you guys cool with moving on? I don’t think we can top the fortune telling here.” 

“Yeah. There’s another bookshop down the street that I want to check out,” said Irina. She held up the bag of novels she’d bought from an earlier endeavor, before Sascha and Mischa had joined them. “Because obviously I need more than these.”

“You do, Mum,” said Mischa seriously, putting his arm around her neck and guiding her towards the front of the store so Sascha could take a moment. “There’s a lot of down time between matches. Tomorrow is basically a free day, so you’ll probably read at least one and a half of those books.”

“Ahh, _dorogoy moya_.” Irina kissed him at the edge of his cheek. “Thank you for excusing my obsession.”

“Anything for you, mama.” Mischa squeezed her shoulders, held the door for her as they exited the shop.

“Tell me, how is Sash getting along? Is he ready for main draw doubles at a grand slam?” Irina tucked the curls at the nape of Mischa’s neck. “He seems ready, but I know he talks to you the most.”

Mischa glowed. “He’s ready. He’s a little nervous, but he wants to get out there as soon as possible. He’ll be such a star, Mum.”

“I know.” Irina smiled. “Just like his brother. He’s so lucky to have you, Mischka. Your father and I are so proud of the way you’ve helped raise him and introduced him to life on the tour. He wouldn’t be where he is today without you. Really.”

Mischa looked behind him then, where Alex and Sascha were just emerging from the little antique store into the early evening sun. His eyes landed upon Sascha’s and he couldn’t help the genuine affectionate smile that crossed his lips; Sascha, caught off guard, grinned hugely, automatically back at him. “You guys gave me the best friend I never knew I was missing. How could I not help raise him?"

Irina made a soft noise of adoration, finished fixing Mischa’s hair; Mischa checked himself and looked back at her, shrugged. Sascha approached them and knocked his knuckles into Mischa’s shoulder. “What are you two talking about over here, smiling like that?” 

“Nothing. Just about what a little shit you are.” Mischa grabbed Sascha around the neck, pulled him in, gave him a noogie. Sascha struggled and laughed, pushed away, choking. 

“Get off me.”

“Are we really eating French food tonight?” Alex was the last to join the group, peering over his shoulder down the row of shops, looking for restaurants. “We could cook again.”

“Let’s do that tomorrow,” said Mischa. “I want spaghetti and meatballs again. I think they’re good luck.”

“Fair enough.”

The bookshop Irina had been eyeing was two stories, a rickety, quaint little thing, stacked from floor to ceiling with rows of books in every language. Here a world of fantasy, there a peek into the life of an ancient Roman warlord, yet there an entire tutorial instructing how to conjugate French verbs. Immediately Sascha raced upstairs, found a back corner, and settled crosslegged in to read; he knew his mother and bookstores, she could stay for hours, so he’d learned to pick a book and lose himself willingly. Mischa wandered the shelves, grazing fingertips over dust-speckled spines, pausing to read descriptions when he found anything that he could understand. He was conscious of the fact that he was stalling for as long as possible. All of him wanted to go to Sascha, sit with their knees together, warm within the embrace of a hundred million words. His awareness was split: half of his brain handling where he was and what he was doing, the other, stronger half centered upon Sascha’s glowing presence in his upstairs nook. Calling him like a lighthouse to a ship. 

What a perilous game they were playing.

Eventually Mischa could not ward off the lure any longer and he left his parents in an alcove on the bottom floor, crested the complaining narrow stairway to the top floor. Found Sascha in his little alcove, back pressed against a wall of book spines, knees to his chest as he read with the chain of his necklace hanging from his mouth. It was only them and the whispering books and the faint slicing rays of fading daylight through the side window and Mischa was powerless.

Sascha looked up and smiled. Sometimes he looked at Mischa like he was the only colorful object in a sea of grayscale. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.”

“Come sit,” said Sascha, patting the narrow floor space beside him. “Mum will be forever.”

With hesitation Mischa loped over to fold himself carefully into the tiny space beside his brother. Sascha was so big he dominated most of the nook but there was enough room for Mischa to fit closely next to him, so long as they were okay with knocking elbows and knees.

They looked at each other and the space between them went up in flames like a Salem witch. 

“This is dangerous,” said Mischa quietly.

Sascha exhaled, measuring his nerves in breath.

“I know.”

They were quiet for a moment, Sascha tracing the carpet between them, pulling at the thick taupe threads to quell his anxiety. Mischa watched the way his fingers moved and thought of Sascha’s hands splayed across his belly. When Sascha spoke again his voice was sure.

“Is it bad that I like it?”

In spite of himself Mischa smiled.

“Probably,” he said. “But I like it, too.”

Again they looked at each other. Sascha was keeping place in his novel with his thumb; using the hand that had been wrecking the carpet he reached over and played his forefinger over Mischa’s bottom lip.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, softly.

Mischa looked around and found only columns of literary spine staring back at him. They were as alone in a public place as they were likely ever to be.

“So kiss me,” he said, warring with his own rationale, and Sascha did, cutting the space between them to nothing, licking deliberately into his mouth. Mischa shut his eyes and lost himself in it, understanding that to deprive himself of vision was to add to the danger, because how could he see who was coming if his eyes were closed? But he didn’t care because Sascha’s mouth was warm and butter and this was so much better because it was so fucking precarious. He couldn’t breathe when he thought about what would happen if they got caught; simultaneously, he couldn’t stop himself from falling in to Sascha’s kiss, sick with want, downward blood surge. Mindless.

After a moment he checked himself, pulled back. Sascha’s eyes were dope-lidded and truant, gone. Because his emotions were overflowing Mischa laughed, shaky chuckle. 

“We’re stupid, you know. To do this.”

Sascha grinned. He looked drunk. “We’re something, all right.”

Mischa kissed him again, fairy-light, and Sascha tried to deepen it but Mischa’s sanity won out and he withdrew, gentle, regret in his eyes. “We can’t, Sash, you know we can’t.”

Sascha growled in vexation. “How many different ways are there to say _I’m dying_?”

“Not enough.” Mischa slid his hand down Sascha’s prominent-boned chest; he was _panting._ “We could go back to the flat, you know. Say we forgot something.”

“We could,” said Sascha, and his eyes lit like a match. “But I like torturing you, too.”

“Yeah? You’re succeeding.” Mischa put his hand palm-down between his legs, massaged his fingers once over his cock for pure need. Sascha hissed. “Getting up behind me like that. Bold move.”

“You told me to do my worst. Besides, I’m just trying to get my dick up against you in any way that you’ll let me,” said Sascha primly, and Mischa grinned, thrown. 

“I know I’m stingy.”

Sascha almost groaned out loud, choked it down. “I’m just waiting for you to tell me I can.”

Mischa passed his fingertips gently across Sascha’s face, distance in his eyes, haze.

“So the cabin?”

“Yes,” said Sascha. “And we ask them as soon as we win our match. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Especially if I win mine.”

“You will,” said Sascha. “You were right when you said this was an incentive. You told yourself you can’t have me until after all that is done, so you’ll be good.”

“I already have you.” 

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Mischa twisted around, examined the shelf right behind them, flailing for a distraction. “I should have suggested making food at the flat tonight.”

“It’s almost harder when we’re there and we have to stay out of our room,” said Sascha. “I wanna be locked in there with you all the fucking time.” 

“I know. I do, too.” Mischa was speaking almost exclusively in German; if they were quick and low there was no way they’d be understood if their parents were somehow listening in. “We’re not gonna see the sun for a day when we get to that cabin.” 

Sascha’s mouth quivered at the edges. “Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because,” said Mischa calmly, “I’m going to teach you some things, and in order for me to do that we’re gonna need to be locked away for a while.”

Sascha swore. He’d been intermittently hard since they’d left the apartment, unfulfilled, and the flap of his boxers was sticky-damp with precome. He thought he could have easily jerked off just listening to Mischa speak about what they were going to do.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me, when you say things like that?”

“Of course I do.” Mischa put his mouth at Sascha’s ear. “I like to think about you leaking for me.”

Sascha smacked his hand down on Mischa’s upper thigh, dug his fingers in, warning. The fingers of his other hand picked steadily at his nails, keyed up.

“Mischa.”

“Sorry.” Mischa’s eyes were demonic; he couldn’t define the word remorse if Sascha had asked, not then. 

“You aren’t.”

“Not at all.”

“Fuck you, then,” said Sascha automatically, words devoid of venom, and Mischa looked at him, _anytime you want_ on his tongue, but he didn’t say it. The unspoken implications between them were legion.

“Fuck yourself.”

“Oh I do. Almost every day. No choice.” Sascha was cheeky, braver; he’d come closer to saying it than Mischa ever could right now, all their codes and allusions.

“One day it won’t be like that.” Mischa pulled a random book from the shelf, flipped through it to avoid Sascha’s eyes. He knew Sash was looking, broadcasting his want, and the intensity of his stare made his face go up in flames.

Sascha leaned over and kissed him sweetly on the cheek.

“I trust you,” he said in Mischa’s ear, and Mischa lit up for that, put his hand under Sascha’s solid jawline, beamed. Turned his face so they could kiss, soft, slow. They were always, always, always in danger of being consumed by their black hole when they allowed themselves to get physical in public and right now was no different; Mischa pulled back with a groan before he dove too deep to right himself.

“Next time don’t let me walk out the door before we both cum.”

“ _Mischa_.” Sascha’s hand on his thigh crawled upward; Mischa watched his progress, hissed. “I tried. Regrets?”

“None.” _Liar._

“No?” Sascha stopped high, high, high, fingers taunting like a dare. “Not one?”

“A few.” Mischa grabbed his wrist. “Behave.”

“I will if you will,” said Sascha, and Mischa raised his hands, conceding the war.

“What the fuck time is it, anyway.” 

“Not late enough.” Sascha’s grin was huge, all teeth, he knew why Mischa was asking, loved the grumble saturating his voice. “But torture is a form of pleasure, Mischa.”

“You learn too quickly, _solnyshka_.”

“I learn from the best,” said Sascha like a cherub, pure white innocence. “You made me this way.”

“I’m both proud and terrified,” said Mischa, but his eyes were soft at the edges. “Read your book. Distract yourself before you distract me too much.”

Sascha’s cheeks stung from grinning. “No promises.”

But they passed an hour or so drowning in words, pages turning in amicable quiet, Sascha clicking his fingernails on his leg, Mischa chewing the cuticle of his thumb till it eroded. Between them their free hands lay laced and sweat-slick but neither of them was moving for discomfort. They were already aware that they’d have precious few public moments like this to hold hands.

After a time there was a small ruckus at the bottom of the stairs; Irina and Alex were coming to retrieve them. Mischa in automatic panic snatched his hand from Sascha’s, looked sideways at him in grim apology, dropped his head and rested his chin on his palm so it would look for all the world like he was immersed in the pages of his book. Sascha tapped him gently on the knee, _you’re okay_ , and did the same, and when their parents rounded the corner they found their sons folded against the shelves, Sascha with his beanstalk legs stretched in front of him, Mischa Indian style worrying his thumbnail in concentration.

“Ah, my favorite sight in the world,” said Irina, overflowing with fond. “I’ve taught you well, my darlings.”

“Excuse you,” said Alex, but he was grinning. “ _We_ have taught them well.”

“Sure, but I’m taking credit for the bookworm part.” Irina scrunched her nose at her husband, beamed. “Did you find anything? Are you ready to go?”

Obediently Sascha and Mischa flashed their book covers at her, stretching out the soreness; they had been stationary for so long on the floor that their bodies had stiffened accordingly.

“Yes. To both.” From Mischa with his distant eyes, thinking of the fictional world in which he’d just been dwelling, how his hand was still wet and warm after the long pressure of Sascha’s palm to his. Distracted at every angle.

The rest of the outing was very much the same. Evening blossomed cool and amicable, weather still more spring than summer, and they all popped back to the flat to grab jackets before going for dinner. Sascha and Mischa, having forced themselves to tone it down after the near-disaster of that afternoon, spent minimal time in their room throwing on outerwear, though Sascha’s eyes found Mischa’s in the dim light and glinted. There was only so much teasing they could take in one day and they both knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, it's been a bit on this one because I've honestly been annoyed with Sascha about his weird treatment of his new girlfriend (PR stunt?) and how he's presented her (hidden her?) from the public and I've been doing a lot of angry!Mischa side blurbs to kind of work out my headcanon around that so sorry for the delay. I'm trying to leave that emotion out of my writing of this because my emotion does directly influence what I am writing and I haven't been able to be as soft with little Sascha in this one as I'd like until recently because I've had to let things die down a bit. In my world, that's neither here nor there because in the way I have this laid out in the future there is no Evgeniya and there is no Olya, just ambiguous Sascha and Mischa more or less living happily ever after because I'm a sap and there's a time and place for difficulties and they don't really belong in this fic, at least not difficulties as great as THOSE..
> 
> Anyway, we've been waiting for quite some time so I think the next few chapters are going to more or less focus on that off week at the cabin. Apologies if it takes me a bit - "Bring An Ocean Down" is the PRIMARY right now and god I've been living in that world. It's been so satisfying to me in the current emotional climate.
> 
> Thank you as always for sticking with me through this - this is a long journey and I'm so happy you all are on it with me. <3 so much love for all of you.


	10. Chapter 10

Dinner was not, as Mischa had predicted, French food.

“You shouldn’t quit your day job to become a fortune teller, I guess,” said Alex serenely, as they walked through the doors of yet another off-the-beaten-path Asian restaurant Irina had successfully isolated from Yelp. 

Sascha smirked; Mischa stole a hasty warning grip of his forearm as they followed their parents to a table in the back corner. “Come on, Dad, I just need practice. Sascha’s hard to read.”

“That’s a joke,” said Irina, laughing. “You’ve been finishing each other’s sentences since Sash could speak.”

“Hey, I can only tell what he’s thinking, not where he’s going for dinner. Two totally different areas of expertise.”

Sascha chewed the inside of his lower lip to stop himself lighting up like the North Star, slipped a long finger under the chain of his medallion. Looped it in his mouth as he perused the menu. Under the table Mischa bumped their knees together and Sascha cursed himself, how he couldn’t keep the giddiness from his eyes.

“I don’t think that counts as you being psychic,” he said, petulantly. “It has to work for more than one person. Mum, pick a number from one to twenty nine. Don’t say it out loud.”

She knew what her younger son was doing. “Got it.”

“Okay. Mischa, what number is Mum thinking of?”

“Uh.” Mischa blinked. “Fourteen.”

“No. Twenty three.” Irina grinned. “Now you, Alex.”

“Okay.”

They paused for a moment while their waiter came to ask for drink orders; when he’d left, Mischa said, “Six.”

“Two,” said Alex, laughing. “Getting closer. Okay, Sash. The true test. If he gets this he CAN read your mind.”

“Alright,” said Sascha. “Wow us.”

“Eighteen,” said Mischa, without even half a second to think.

Sascha’s face went white. “Fuck you.”

“Alexander,” said Irina firmly.

“Sorry, Mum.” Sascha had the good grace to hang his head, sheepish. “How did you know?” 

“Well, you’d normally pick thirteen, because that’s your favorite number,” said Mischa, with the air of someone who had just won the lotto. “But you wanted to throw me off, because you knew I’d guess it right away, so you went with second best. It was between that and five.”

Sascha was watching him in amazement. “Witchcraft.”

Alex chuckled. “I don’t think so. What’s Mischa’s favorite number, Sash?”

“Seven,” said Sascha immediately, “he says it’s lucky.”

Alex looked to Mischa. “Meesh?” 

“He’s right,” said Mischa, shrugging. “I’d probably have picked that number if I’d have been asked.”

“You two,” Irina shook her head slow, “kill me. You probably won’t even have to talk during your doubles match, you’ll just sense each other’s court positioning. Should we get pork buns?” 

The answer, of course, was yes, and after that there was no more talk of divination, just the warm joking chatter that was custom for a Zverev family meal. Under the table Sascha and Mischa linked pinkies, little line of life that kept them going until they could be alone again, and there they stayed, locked like that until dinner was finished. 

That night Mischa let Sascha, clad in boxers and socks (“sexy,” he joked, when he saw that Sascha was going to leave his white-Dad-at-a-barbecue tennis socks on, and Sash flipped him the bird with the ease of a baby waving to its mother), climb him and ruck their hips together in slow agony-ecstasy. Sash could roll his waist like a stripper, deliberate, he wasn’t self conscious at all. Mischa let him dictate but again when they were both going starry at the edges for pleasure he stopped Sascha mid-movement, pushed him up so he was straddling Mischa’s hips, one long thin thigh on either side. Again when Sascha opened his eyes they were distant, planets away, he was dancing with the galaxies.

“What, Meesh.” It was a gasp, vexation, interruption. 

“Cum on me,” whispered Mischa. “Let me feel you do it.”

Sascha looked at him like he was coveted, the center exhibition at an art museum, all adoration.

“Where?” he said, blanked out from need, shuddery.

So Mischa sat up, propped himself against pillows and the headboard. Took Sascha’s hand and drew it down the expanse of his own chest, painting, marking a way for him. 

“Here.”

Sascha’s eyes in the dark were jade fire.

“How?”

Mischa placed his palm flat on the back of his little brother’s hand and guided him, dropped their tangled nest of fingers atop Sascha’s waistband, made a bracelet around Sascha’s wrist with his hand. His face when Sascha glanced up at him was gentle.

“Like this,” he said, soft. “Teach me how you touch yourself.”

Sascha blinked and Mischa saw nerves flutter like a quick dance across his eyes.

“What about you?”

“I’ll take care of myself,” said Mischa, smiling. “Or, if you keep grinding down on me like that, you will. But this is what I want, to feel how you make yourself feel good. Don’t be nervous.”

Sascha puffed, indignant. “I’m not.” To demonstrate he pushed his boxers down so they pooled at his lower thighs, cock out straining and swollen in his hand. Mischa got teeth around his lower lip, hissed for how beautiful he was, how much he wanted, wanted, wanted. How close he was to touching Sascha with his fingers clenching his little brother’s bird-boned wrist, his skin gold and primed for Sascha’s seed.

It took less than a minute; Sash was keyed up and Mischa could see in his eyes how much he liked this, liked the feral undertones of what they were doing, desperate after hours of torture. The movement of his wrist was sure and strong and Mischa tried to memorize how he did it so he could copy the movement later but he wasn’t sure how attentive he was because he was too busy watching Sascha’s face transform, concentration to pleasure to ecstasy. With his free hand he covered Sascha’s open mouth, let him spill wanton noise into skin, muffled, and he knew before he felt wet warmth on his chest that Sash was done. Across his face unfurled the expression that Mischa had been fantasizing about; the same one he knew Sash would pull when he finally rode him. Bliss.

When Sascha was done he regarded Mischa with not a little embarrassment in his eyes, hooked his lower lip in with his teeth. Bashfully he said,

“That was a lot. I’m sorry. Do you want me to clean you up?”

“You’re sorry?” Mischa dabbed a finger into the creamy pool of white Sascha had left, licked it, sweeter than he’d thought it would be. “I’m not. You taste good, Sash.”

Sascha’s eyes were golden, astonished; he was spellbound by everything Mischa was doing. When he spoke his voice was wholly destroyed. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Did you like it?”

“Do you have to ask?”

Mischa laughed, a lovely warbling thing. “Fair point.”

“Will you let me feel how you do it now?” 

“If you want to,” said Mischa, and Sascha gave him The Look, the one that said he couldn’t believe anyone could be so obtuse. “How?” 

Sascha looked at him, tilted his head, studying the physics of it all. His face was so innocent Mischa couldn’t reconcile it with what they were doing. Finally Sascha said,

“Stay on your back. I wanna lay next to you so I can watch your face because if you’re on top of me I’m gonna be watching something else.”

Mischa grinned. “Perv.”

“Pot kettle black,” said Sascha, and kissed him before he pulled his shorts up, rolled off Mischa’s hips, sprawled onto his side. Sascha was right-handed and Mischa was a lefty so it worked perfectly: Sascha could curl his fingers around Mischa’s wrist without struggling at a weird angle, and he did so easily, head turned so as to study Mischa’s expressions. He was fascinated by Mischa’s face, the structure of it, similar to their father’s but completely his own at the same time. Sascha thought he was the most exquisite thing in all the universe and he tried to make his eyes broadcast this every time he looked at his brother. He didn’t think Mischa heard it enough, how lovely he was.

“I can’t wait to do this to you,” he said softly, and Mischa flushed gorgeously and closed his eyes and then Sascha relaxed his arm so Mischa could take the lead. Mischa jerked off like he did, deliberate wrist flick, thumb alternating lazily between crown and slit for the firework sensation.

“It’s gonna be quick,” Mischa warned through clenched teeth. His voice was rough. Sascha smiled.

“Quick as me, you mean? Open your eyes, Meesh. Wanna look at you.”

Mischa did as he was told. Under volumes of dark lashes his eyes were lurid, pleasure-high. His breath was hitching in a way that alerted Sascha that he was very close.

“You’re so beautiful, Mischa,” said Sascha, voice like a breath. Every particle of him was centered around the involuntary movement of his arm, and he wondered if Mischa would let him finish if he moved his hand but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t fuck it up, they were operating all on trust right now. Sascha understood that Mischa needed them to go slow so he could justify what they were doing, be certain far past nagging doubt that Sascha wanted this, because he was so, so young and Mischa was still fighting himself. Murky waters weren’t his thing, he didn’t like ambiguity; he liked his actions and decisions and motives to be clear as the surface of a sunrise-hour lake. And that was okay, because Sascha was willing to do whatever it took for Mischa to be comfortable, as long as he could belong to him.

Despite his lust-fog the smile that unfurled across Mischa’s face was luminous.

“You are, Sash,” he said, and Sascha scooted forward and kissed him, foreheads together, noses clashing awkward as their lips met. Mischa’s breath in his mouth was hot and forced, intermittent, harsher the closer he got to climax, and Sascha wanted so badly to climb him, let Mischa rub his cock against Sascha’s lower stomach until he exploded from sheer friction. Mischa was making these low little whimpering noises in his chest; Sascha was losing it for them, fascinated.

“You can cum,” said Sascha against his mouth. “Come on, I know you’re close. Cum for me.”

Mischa exhaled, harsh, struck his forehead into Sascha’s so their bones jarred. When he came it was all over his hand, hot white slick on his lower belly, and Sascha held on until Mischa stopped, two or three extra strokes to milk his orgasm, get the most pleasure he could until the sensitivity became too much. Afterward when they kissed it was the sort of lingering thing felt in their extremities.

Sascha tugged at Mischa’s wrist so he would give him his hand; when he did Sascha raised it to his mouth, licked thick cloying seed from his skin with his eyes fastened to his brother’s own. Mischa dropped his head back, moaned powerlessly.

“You’ll fucking wreck me, Sash.” 

“Yeah.” Sascha’s tongue swiped once around his lips; Mischa could see white against the pink of his mouth. “It’s hot, huh. You taste good, too.”

Mischa reached between them to pull up his shorts, rolled neatly over and pinned Sascha down with his hips. Slid his tongue into Sascha’s mouth so he could taste himself. Sascha wriggled beneath him, _mmmm_ in his throat, and Mischa said,

“Very hot.” 

“Meesh,” Sascha said, and there was that whine that meant interest. “You’re gonna get me started again.”

Mischa laughed, didn’t stop what he was doing. “Your sex drive is impressive, Sascha.”

“Must be genetic.” Sascha arched his eyebrows, mouth twisted around a smirk. “You and your _we’re not gonna see the light of day at the cabin_.”

“Well,” said Mischa, mouth at Sascha’s temple, “you have a lot to learn, and I have a lot to teach. I want to take my time with you. You deserve that.”

“So do you,” said Sascha, softly. “I’m not trying to push you too hard, Mischa. I know why you want to be careful with this. It’s just that I want you all over me, all the time.”

“I know,” said Mischa. “You’re not pushing me too hard. You’ve been good at keeping pace with me, even if you don’t want to. I’m just - I – I feel like I have to be cautious with you.” 

“It’s okay,” said Sascha, and he craned his neck up so Mischa would kiss him again. “But if I wasn’t sixteen."

“What?” Mischa was amused; he knew what Sascha was asking, loved that he liked to discuss these things.

“You know what.”

“If you weren’t sixteen you’d still be my little brother.”

“And?”

“ _And_ I don’t know. Depends on your experience, I guess,” said Mischa, but he was thinking _I’d have fucked you through the floor by now_. “I’m not really used to taking things slow. I’m just worried about your comfort level. And I, as always, don’t want you to, you know. Regret things.”

Sascha roped his fingers through Mischa’s hair on either side of his head, clutched him so Mischa would look at his eyes. Softly he said,

“Will you stop?” 

“Stop what?”

“Questioning what I want,” said Sascha, “feeling guilty because you think you’re taking advantage of me. For the hundredth time, Mischa, you aren’t.”

“I know, I know.” Mischa kissed him on the mouth. “We’ve talked about this like fifty times already. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for being an amazing big brother,” said Sascha, and kissed him on the nose. “I appreciate you checking with me. Really. I’m just surprised you can resist this.”

He gestured to his own chest, grinning like a scoundrel, and Mischa laughed out loud, rolled off of him.

“It requires Herculean effort, let me tell you. Come on. Let’s go clean up.”

When they climbed into bed Sascha set an alarm for seven so they could separate before their parents came in to check on them; they fell asleep behind a securely locked door with Sascha’s head on Mischa’s chest and their legs entwined like so many ropes, dreaming. In the morning they woke easily to the screeching alarm and they weren’t remotely tired.

“Let’s go run,” said Mischa, so after leaving a note for their parents and jumping into their sneakers they set out.

It was early enough that the commuters were just beginning to trickle out for the day; traffic was low and light and the pedestrian population seemed to be contained to other runners out for their morning workout. Mischa set their route and subconsciously he chose areas with less traffic, deserted places where no one was watching, sanctuaries for obvious affection. Neither of them brought headphones and so it was Sascha’s even breath that lulled Mischa into his pace.

After two and a half miles he slowed down in the middle of a street tucked between two rows of modest apartments; leaned a palm against the rough brick wall to catch his breath. Sascha backtracked, paused in front of him with his hands framing his lean hips.

“Tired?”

“No.” Mischa smiled. “But I’m an opportunist.”

Sascha cocked his head, shook dripping curls from his sunshine eyes. “How?”

Mischa checked around, little smile quirking at the corners of his lips. Pressed Sascha back into the wall behind him, a hand on either side of his shoulders, intrusive.

“Public place. Early morning. No mum and dad.” Mischa ducked his head into the side of Sascha’s throat, fluttered his tongue in Sascha’s ear. “Sometimes I just wanna be able to touch you in a place that isn’t our bedroom.”

“You do, though,” said Sascha seriously, despite the resultant shudder in his shoulders. “Our bathroom.”

Mischa laughed and leaned in and closed his mouth over Sascha’s own, boxed him in. “You know if we weren’t professional athletes we could get away with it. People that don’t know us think we look nothing alike."

“I think we do,” said Sascha, melting into Mischa’s body, receptive. “I look more like Mum but I think you can see it in our eyes. Maybe our noses.”

“Oh I can see it,” said Mischa, “Mum and Dad can see it. But other people can’t. You’d have to see us all together to know.”

Sascha rested his forehead against Mischa’s, skated a slow hand down his back, collecting sweat. “Does that bother you? That I look like you?”

“No,” said Mischa. “Not at all. Like, you looking like me makes you who you are, and I love who you are. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t change the shape of your eyes or your nose or anything about you.”

Sascha was radiating iridescent light. “I love you, Mischa.”

“I love you too, Sash,” said Mischa, and when they kissed again it was timestopping, breathstealing, luxuriant. Now they could take their leisure; now they could bask in each other, because there was no one to see them but the sky. 

*

Junior draws were released that night; Sascha was sixth seed and wouldn’t play his first round until at least Thursday. His opponent was one he had faced and defeated easily in the past and he was cheerful as he stood at the kitchen counter spreading garlic and butter and parmesan cheese over the loaf of bread they’d bought at the market earlier.

“Don’t get overconfident,” warned Alex, watching the straight set of his youngest son’s shoulderline. “Anyone can win on any given day.”

“Right, Dad, which is why me and Meesh are going to win tomorrow,” said Sascha, and Mischa smiled into the bowl of tossed salad he was mixing together. Sascha was the kind of match-confident he wished he could be all the time, cocky in his youth, convinced that nothing bad could happen to him. Impenetrable.

“Where’d you learn to be so sure of yourself, huh,” he whispered into Sascha’s palm that night, as they drowsed together in the bed nearest the window. They’d left their balcony door cracked to usher in the moon air and the temperature was glorious.

“I’m not sure of myself at all, Meesh,” said Sascha, truthful in his sleep haze. “I’m afraid you’ll change your mind every day.”

“Never, Sascha,” promised Mischa fiercely, “I told you. It’s you, forever.”

“Forever,” echoed Sascha, and when they slept it was dreamless, calm.

*

Surfing that wave of Sascha’s confidence Mischa won in straights, didn’t even drop serve. For shits and giggles at 3-0 in the third set he called Sascha on court and Sascha knelt in front of him, slapped his thighs once, smirking. In Russian he said, 

“You idiot. What do you need?”

“Just wanted to say hi.” Mischa kept his face as straight as he could but he was grinning. “So, hi. How’s it going up there?” 

“Good. Mum is forcing me to hydrate as usual.” Sascha’s eyes circled petulantly in their sockets. “You look perfect out here, Mischa. Play like this later, okay?”

“Psh. Like I could stop,” said Mischa, and he winked. In their mishmash of a language he said, “You look perfect up there.”

“Quit flirting with me and focus on your match,” said Sascha, but he was beaming. “God, doubles is going to be insane.”

Mischa snorted. “You’re going to drive me insane, you mean.”

“Like you won’t do the same to me?” Sascha smacked Mischa’s legs again, that joy still permeating his lovely face. “Alright. I’m leaving you to your own devices. I think you’re okay.”

“If you say so, coach,” said Mischa, and Sascha knocked knuckles with him and sprinted off court.

They had a two hour break between Mischa’s match and their court time for doubles so after Mischa went to press he ducked into the locker room to shower, change kits. He was euphoric; it was only the second time he’d reached third round in a Slam and he felt like a god, like he’d never lose. When he stepped out from the stall in only his little white compression shorts to grab his water bottle from the bench Sascha was standing against the sink waiting for him. The locker room was a swarming honeybee nest, players surrounding them on all sides, but Mischa wanted nothing more than to pull Sascha into the shower stall and kiss him all over. He compromised by injecting as much affection into his greeting as he could.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Sascha stood up, pulled Mischa into his arms, kissed the side of his head like it was nothing. “So fucking proud of you, Meesh. Mum and Dad have food for you in the player’s restaurant, are you hungry?”

“Starving.” Mischa resisted the urge to nuzzle sideways into Sascha’s cheek, squeezed him, pulled back. “Are you ready? Did you eat?”

“I’m about to, with you,” said Sascha. “Is your bag in the shower? Do you still have my headphones?”

Mischa looked at him, confused. “Do I have your - ?”

“Yeah, remember I gave them to you so you could listen to music before your match?” Sascha brushed past him into the stall, peeked out owlishly from behind the curtain. “Will you get them for me?” 

Mischa knew what he was doing and his entire body screamed _danger_ but he didn’t care, he was high from his win and he was in the mood to tempt fate. He ducked in beside Sascha, letting the curtain fall closed behind them, and got as far as bending over his bag to unzip it before Sascha had him up against the wall, knee tucked between his thighs and his mouth in Mischa’s throat, sucking bruise-kisses against his skin. Mischa had enough time to think _quick learner_ before Sascha kissed his mouth and Mischa lost sight of reality.

“One day I’ll let you cum down my throat in here,” he said on a low hiss into Sascha’s ear, and Sash dissolved wanton against him, biting his cheek against the resultant whine that burgeoned in his chest.

“Fuck, Mischa, you can’t tell me stuff like that.”

“You started it,” said Mischa, and lightly slapped Sascha’s ass. The sound was covered easily by the rough cacophony of locker-room noise but Sascha jumped, squeaked. “Get out of here before we get caught. I’m glad you came to see me.” 

“Me too,” said Sascha, and they kissed again, openmouthed and slow, before he ducked back beneath the curtain and was gone. Mischa fell against the cold tiles and dropped his head back, let the sear of adrenaline burn through him. They were careless right now but he couldn’t deny that the peril turned him on and he knew he wouldn’t stop Sascha if he tried to join again after their doubles match.

*

As it turned out, it was shockingly easy to use their rampant sexual tension as incentive. Sascha was thoroughly unintimidated by the big stage and Mischa was riding the high of his singles success and they won their first set 6-3, easy. Mischa’s fingers crooked around Sascha’s neck, Sascha’s hand low on Mischa’s spine, toeing lines and seducing disaster. Rulebreakers, troublemakers, all the while grounded by the light in each other’s eyes. Sascha had daydreams of getting Mischa alone in another locker room shower stall and Mischa could see it in his face. At the set changeover, all wobbling up-down knees and clenched knuckles, he said in their _komisch Zunge_ , 

“Your eyes right now, Sash. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“Something among the lines of your fortune telling scenario,” said Sascha, low, and Mischa grinned like a fiend.

“Always.”

“Always. I like the way you grunt when you serve.”

“I like the way you make noise when you hit the ball, period.”

“Maybe I’m doing it on purpose.”

“Maybe I am, too.” Mischa raised his eyebrows at his strings; Sascha snorted.

“I think we could get far like this.”

“I do, too.” Mischa smacked Sascha on the thigh and they jumped up together. Success felt inevitable after they had already convinced themselves that they were invincible.

In the end they won in straights, never in doubt, and the rest of that day was a blur, gelato for Alex while Irina read in the corner of the shop, a cupcake for Sascha, Asian food for Mischa. All the day was spent anticipating the night; Mischa could see gilded need in Sascha’s eyes and knew his own reflected the same. He felt like a hot-wired car, jolted, given life by illicit action.

_Further._

At dinner, after a long stretch of lighthearted conversation, Mischa broached the subject of the cabin.

“So, Dad.”

Alex looked up from his plate with immediate wariness streaking through his eyes. “Oh, God. What.”

Mischa laughed out loud for his father’s reaction. “Calm down. I’m not gonna ask you for a jet or anything.”

“Oh.” Alex’s face went from caution to humor, and when he spoke again he had visibly relaxed. “So what is it?”

“Well, me and Sash were _thinking..._ ”

“You know, since we’ve been playing so well and all,” from Sasha, whose enthusiasm was like the chirrup of a sunrise birdcall.

Mischa was nodding. “Right. And since we haven’t really gotten to have any quality chill time in a while...”

“Maybe you could ask Uncle Serge to let me and Mischa have the cabin for a few days during our off week?”

Alex and Irina swapped a glittering, lighthearted glance.

“Well,” said Irina, gently, “we were kind of expecting you to ask something like this.”

Sascha said with his heart preparing to embark upon crestfallen descent, “You were?”

“We were,” said Alex. “Which is why your mother and I are going to Croatia during your off week and you two are going to your Uncle Serge’s cabin. You’ll leave the day after Sash plays his last match and we’ve already booked you on flights out of Switzerland to your next tournaments.”

It was the boys’ turn to exchange incredulous looks. Then Mischa, with quite uncharacteristic high-pitched enthusiasm, yelped:

“Are you serious?”

Alex and Irina were beaming.

“Serious.”

Sascha got up from the table so suddenly he nearly pitched it over; he raced around the table to hug Alex and Irina from behind and in that moment he was wholly sixteen. Mischa loved him like he loved being alive: innately, all-encompassingly, euphorically.

In the late evening they curled together on the couch, reading with the balcony doors thrown wide, Alex and Irina half dozing in front of the television, some National Geographic program in hypnotic French. Sascha kept one thigh pasted firmly to Mischa’s but he leaned on his opposite knee so they could create the illusion of space and Mischa loved him for his nuanced savvy.

“Let’s go to bed,” he murmured, and Sascha, who had been waiting for this since they’d sat down an hour and a half ago, closed his book with a snap. Neither Alex nor Irina stirred at all.

“Okay.”

With jungle-cat stealth they crept to their room, night prowl. Closed the door and looked at each other and flashed shit-eating grins. Then Mischa bulled Sascha up against the wall and kissed him until he groaned with want.

“Shirt off.”

Sascha stripped waist-up, pressed invasive hands to Mischa’s hipbones, raised the hem of his brother’s shirt until Mischa yanked it off. There was no ceremony, no hesitation, both of them blind-desperate to free themselves, and then Mischa was pressing his bare pelvis flush to Sascha’s own and the look on Sascha’s face was gorgeous, openmouthed pleasure. Out loud in rough Russian he said,

“Oh. Fuck.”

Mischa smiled, kissed gently under Sascha’s razor jawline. “Okay?” 

“Okay.” Sascha exhaled. “So okay.” 

Mischa dragged up on tiptoes so he could strike friction between them; lowered slowly to his heels. Sascha was already hard as iron. 

“Sascha, god.”

“You feel,” gasped Sascha, clamping hands around Mischa’s hips, “so good.” 

“You too.” Mischa kissed him. “Bed.”

They fell atop the closest mattress, Sascha astride Mischa so he could temper their movement, and his eyes as he dragged himself slow up and down on Mischa’s body were drugged. He looked like he’d just awoken from the most pleasant dream and was still half-living in fantasy; Mischa was sure his own face was much the same. It had been some time since he had enjoyed the subtle, slow type of pleasure that prolonged foreplay could offer.

“Meesh, I’m sorry, I can cum like this,” said Sascha after a few moments of wordless, languorous movement. Every inch of him was burning; Mischa beneath him was lazily holding his hip, watching his face with his lips split in half, mesmerized.

“Whatever you need,” said Mischa gently, and cupped him under the chin with a tender forefinger. “You’re so beautiful, Sash.”

“You think you’re not,” said Sascha, aggressive, rucking his hips hard. “I know you do. But you are.” 

When they came it was nearly together and at first Mischa was surprised that something so seemingly simple could set him off like that but then he thought of how long he’d been eyeing Sascha from the side and understood that his carnal rules were reset. Sascha gave him more than anyone else ever had and it was like that in every nature of their relationship. Nothing about this was anything like what he had been used to and not for the first time he imagined that nothing could touch them, that they were unstoppable. They couldn’t see an end in sight.

*

Of course, as gold things tend to do, the win streak faded.

Sascha won his first match with ease - and requested Mischa on court twice, unnecessarily, just to flirt with him in plain sight - but later that day Mischa lost, four long sets to Nikolai Davydenko, and when he came off court he was in a foul mood. Several line calls had gone against him and he hadn’t been able to recover mentally after the second one and he didn’t want to admit it to himself but he was tired, physically and mentally. He’d been on the road for quite some time and he’d been winning more than usual; while that was excellent in every way, it was also pushing his physical fitness, and he recognized with extreme reluctance that it was time for a break.

That mindset, however, didn’t carry over into their doubles matches, and somehow before they could even comprehend the immense success that they were having they were in the quarterfinals against Jamie Murray and Bruno Soares. Sascha played an early evening match for a spot in the junior quarters and he pulled it out in three sets, got his knees dirty when he collapsed to the clay in sloppy victory, glorious. Mischa in the stands was screaming so fiercely he knew he’d lose his voice the next day but he didn’t care. Sascha deserved every bit of the standing ovation he received.

Over the hazy days they’d developed their little routine: purloined public moments, hot breathless nights, breaks when one of them had an early match. Alarm set for seven AM or earlier so one or the other could stumble, drunk from slumber, into the opposite bed. Coffee they slugged to get them through early runs and late nights. They lost their quarterfinal doubles match but they took it to four sets; Sascha, exhausted, was defeated in straights in the semifinals by the second seed.

Afterward Mischa met him in the locker room and Sascha let himself be folded into Mischa’s arms and ducked his face against Mischa’s shoulder and breathed out a sore rasp of exasperation and Mischa scuffed hands through Sascha’s soaked sweaty hair and told him not to worry, _liebling,_ this is just the beginning for you.

Sascha’s irritation was fleeting. All things considered, it had been his most successful slam yet, and Mischa’s as well. They were exceeding not only their own expectations, but those of their parents, and those of the tennis world as well. The ATP had already contacted Mischa wanting to do a segment on his “adorable” relationship with Sascha, and they had laughed about it that night in bed.

And then, just like that, they were at the airport, and their parents were bidding them goodbye as they stood with their bags slouched over their shoulders waiting to board a flight to Switzerland.

“Keys are under the green flowerpot on the back porch,” said Alex, as he hugged Mischa goodbye. “Be safe. Try to hit at least twice this week, okay? Even if just for an hour.” 

“It’s in the plan, dad,” said Sascha, rolling his eyes at Irina, but he was grinning. She smiled, too. 

“Let us know when you land. Send pictures.”

“We will,” said Mischa, and with final hugs and kisses and waves he and Sascha turned in the direction of their gate, the complete opposite of their parents’. It felt surreal that they had over a week of alone time sprawled ahead of them and he knew he’d have to put a check on himself because unbidden he’d been dreaming of what Sascha’s body might feel like wrapped around his cock and he’d already promised himself that they had to _at least_ wait until Sascha was seventeen for that, because God, wasn’t this whole thing problematic enough?

And yet, and yet, the guilt ebbed daily, and Sascha’s hands low on his bare stomach no longer made him feel the need to drop to his knees kissing his cross, _hail Mary full of grace_ on his tongue, repentant.

Sascha asked, because he could interpret every minute deviance of Mischa’s expressions, “What are you thinking about?”

Mischa smirked. “What do you think?” 

“Oh,” said Sascha, and his face blotted slow, warm scarlet. “Me, too.”

Mischa slung a slow, tender arm around Sascha’s shoulders, raked one hand up through Sascha’s curls, smiled. By now they were nearly at their gate and the freedom of the week before them sprawled like the horizon.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sascha swallowed. “Obviously, yeah. When have I not been thinking about it?"

“Good point,” said Mischa, and quickly he ducked his forehead into Sascha’s throat before he pulled away.

They were half an hour out from their flight so they got drinks for the air and sat together in front of the window across the way from their gate, watching the chaos of the landing strip, little carts taking luggage out to the bellies of the aircraft. Sascha had loved watching planes take off since he was a child and it still fascinated him; Mischa liked to see his face, clear and stunning, when he was captivated by something. It reminded him of his brother’s innocence.

After a moment of this - Sascha watching the airfield, Mischa watching him - Sascha said shyly, “What?”

“Nothing, Sash,” said Mischa, warm for the bashfulness in his brother’s voice, because as much as Sascha’s demeanor spoke to the fact that he liked attention, direct, naked interest revealed his inner humility. “It’s just that Mum and Dad aren’t here so I can finally look at you like I want to.”

Sascha turned his head and smiled and set his palm low on Mischa’s thigh; Mischa was leaning elbows-on-knees so the drape of his arms could conceal the placement of Sascha’s hand and he shivered involuntarily. The heat of Sascha’s skin bled easily through the material of Mischa’s jeans, sensory overload.

“I want to touch you like I want to,” said Sascha, voice raw. It amazed Mischa how bold he could be even as he shied away from direct scrutiny.

“Soon,” said Mischa, and he bumped into Sascha’s side. The smile that split across Sascha’s face was all joy and instinctively Mischa reached over to tap him on his cheek, just beside his little snaggletooth. “Where would you, if we could? In public?”

Sascha’s face went the kind of slow red that meant he was both embarrassed and turned on.

“Bathroom,” he said. “Like the handicap stall.”

“The airplane bathroom,” said Mischa, and he wriggled his eyebrows. Sascha laughed.

“It’s impossible for me to fit my _self_ in there, let alone both of us.”

Mischa laughed. “I’d just have to sit on the toilet lid.”

“So unsanitary,” said Sascha, but he didn’t hate the idea and they both knew it. He thought of riding Mischa in the cramped fluorescent air, hand clenched huge and clammy around the bathroom sink to steady himself, and swallowed. “I’ve always sort of wanted to do stuff in plane seats, though. Like, handjobs under blankets in plain sight.”

“Thought about it, have you?”

Sascha smirked. “I think about doing stuff with you literally everywhere, all the time.” 

“Me, too,” said Mischa, fully guilty of the same. “Especially playing doubles. The entire time we were out there I wanted to bathroom break you so hard.”

“You wanted to...?” Sascha was laughing, eyes locked out the window upon an ascending plane so Mischa couldn’t see how deeply red his face had gone. “Is that the terminology? What does that mean, exactly?”

“Oh, it’s a vague term for illicit activity in the middle of a match,” said Mischa, grinning. “Basically I’d get you up against the bathroom wall and let you rub one out against my stomach, or something along those lines.” 

Sascha was immediately rock hard, thinking of daubing Mischa’s coppery skin with his seed, how Mischa kissed into his neck and whispered _yes, Sash_ while he shuddered through his orgasm. “Can I do that when we get there?”

“If you want,” said Mischa indulgently. “Or we can try something new.”

They still hadn’t progressed beyond pelvis-to-pelvis but it felt good enough that Sascha had almost forgotten the urge to move forward; he was far more than content to sit astride Mischa and roll his hips down, both of them groaning for the contact, slow murderous grind. He wanted hands and lips and tongue but the blazing vague need for _further_ dulled when Mischa’s cock was pressed flat against his, when his brother moaned aloud as they moved, eyes gone blurry and powerless in the dark.

 Sascha loved to make Mischa moan.

“That,” he croaked now, “or both.”

When they boarded the plane Sascha walked ahead of Mischa and Mischa kept one big possessive hand square in the middle of his shoulders and Sascha felt it in his jittery nerve endings.

*

Serge’s cabin was in Lauterbrunnen, a tiny Swiss town that could have been plucked straight from Hans Christian Anderson’s imagination. In the summer the colors of the village were high and majestic, the fields overrun with vivid wildflowers of all shades, the Alps in the near background like nothing else in the world. It had been ages since Sascha and Mischa had stayed in the village, and never had they been left alone there; Alex had left them with strict instructions to clean up after themselves.

“Like we have a choice,” Sascha had muttered to Mischa, and Mischa had grinned demonically, thinking of how they’d stained sheets, shower walls, each other’s bare skin. Messy. 

Now they were both in awe for the scenery before them. Sascha’s face when they stepped off the train was naked in its raw beautiful emotion and when Mischa gazed out at the multicolored village, at this astonishing little piece of the world that was theirs for more than a week, he felt eternal.

“I don’t remember it being this perfect,” said Sascha, voice cracking from disuse. His headphones still hung from his ears and he was in his own mind, all lyrics and the thought of Mischa beside him, but there was nothing in the world that could pluck him from his own headspace than scenery like this. It was so flawlessly constructed it could have been a painting. 

“I can’t believe we’re here, Sash,” said Mischa frankly, and they looked at each other and the affection that surged between them was warm, warm, warm.

On a small grass-green hill surrounded by scads and scads of those gorgeous wildflowers stood Serge’s cabin. It had been given several fresh coats of paint since the last time they had visited and it couldn’t have been lovelier, a calendar photo, a screensaver. Sascha felt like he would never be able to feel a negative emotion again; Mischa saw that rush of elation on his face and right then he was so in love he was dizzy with it. 

“ _Mischa_ ,” breathed Sascha, and Mischa said,

“I know, Sash.”

True to Alex’s word, Serge’s spare key was under the green flowerpot on the back porch; they burst inside laughing and threw their bags in a corner and raced around like excited puppies, reacquainting themselves with their temporary living space. The cabin was modest but it was beautifully furnished and it positively sparkled with cleanliness, the interior glowing in the soft yellow afternoon light, and when Sascha reached the huge master bedroom he scraped to halt in the middle of it and stared. 

As a child he’d seen this space only briefly; he and Mischa usually stayed in the corner room with the bunk beds, and they spent most of their time here outside, either skiing or exploring depending on the season. Sleeping space had held no significance to him before his teenage years but now he had someone to share it with and looking at the massive king-sized bed situated in the middle of the room he felt his heart constrict. It was here, he realized, that his life would change. It was here that Mischa would give him what he’d been patiently, steadily, eagerly requesting for nearly two weeks now.

_Further_

Sascha understood why Mischa was taking his time; he did. Although they had been flirting and teasing and dancing around their new reality for ages, it had been an undeniably short time since they had taken things to a physical level, and Mischa was trying to let Sascha adjust. Sascha knew that his brother was afraid to admit how much he wanted to take his virginity; Sascha couldn’t fault him, because he, too, was scared to broach the subject. They had approached confirmation multiple times and somehow managed to evade specifics but Sascha had never wanted anything more in his life and he was frustrated that he didn’t know how to ask. He knew that his age was problematic but he was willing to wait centuries if it meant he could ensure Mischa’s full comfort; Mischa could doubt himself into a _fugue_ and Sascha was doing everything he could to reassure him at all turns.

“Mischa,” he yelled, because he wanted him to see their habitat, “come see our bedroom.”

In seconds Mischa skidded into the room, caught Sascha around his thin hips, scanned the area with a huge grin on his face.

“Damn.”

“Right.”

For a moment they stood in silence, catching their wandering breath, gazing around at the gargantuan bed and vaulted ceilings and modest decor. Eventually Mischa broke away from Sascha to explore the bathroom; it wasn’t quite up to the impossible standard of their condo in Paris, but it was pleasing, all marble counters and glimmering tiled floors, two identical claw-footed sinks. A shower with room for Mischa to bend Sascha over, if he so wished. More than adequate.

Sascha padded in softly behind him, leaned on the doorframe watching with his arms crossed over his chest. Luminous, wanting. For all their earlier boastful talk he knew Mischa was nervous, knew he was stalling, because he was too: his own heartbeat was a cracking staccato drumline and his palms were clammy with sweat.

“Mischa,” he said again, quiet, and when Mischa turned to look at him his face was wide open, knowing, apprehensive. They had gotten what they wanted. They were alone.

“Hey,” said Mischa, voice unsteady.

“Hey,” said Sascha, and then he breached the distance between them and walked Mischa back against the sink, pinned him with his hips, arms circling his neck. “You’re nervous.”

“You are, too,” said Mischa, tapping Sascha on his sun-speckled nose. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

“Duh,” said Sascha, “but that’s normal. It always happens to me near you these days.”

Mischa chuckled.

“I guess it makes sense.”

“I guess it does.” Sascha was agreeable to everything now; he was indeed anxious, but it wasn’t negative. It was the sort of nervous energy that propelled him onto the tennis court for each of his matches, the elated adrenaline he’d felt when he’d gone skydiving with his family during last year’s off season, staring down at the faraway ground with epinephrine pounding through his chest. How he’d felt just before he’d kissed Mischa for the first time. _Do it, come on, let’s go._

Now it was Mischa who kissed him, erasing the inches between them so he could taste the warm sweetness of Sascha’s mouth, quell the tremble that started in his knees. Against Sascha’s lips he whispered,

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Sascha, and his voice was steady, his answering kiss deep as bone. “I just, you know. Can’t believe we’re actually here."

“I know,” said Mischa, and he pressed Sascha back, keeping their hips together with one hand at the center of his spine, fingers skittering up under the hem of Sascha’s shirt as he propelled them gently into the bedroom. “I can kiss you in the bedroom, I can kiss you in the kitchen, the living room, the back porch if I want to.” 

Into Mischa’s mouth Sascha was smiling slow, blissful. His arms were still looped around Mischa’s neck and he was loose as a ragdoll, at last starting to settle. “Anywhere. Anywhere, Mischa. I’ve wanted to get you alone for so fucking long.”

“You’ve had me alone, crazy,” said Mischa, but he squeezed Sascha’s ribcage, teasing. “Many times.”

“Not like this,” said Sascha, and for a while they simply stood in the middle of the bedroom making out, slow and lazy with no thought of being discovered, no nagging concern about who might walk in, because there was no one to hide from here. They had thought freedom was two locked doors, shower water roaring over their choked bitten-off whimpers, but that wasn’t quite right. Freedom was being able to touch one another as they pleased without the crouching, underlying trepidation that Alex or Irina might question why their sons had locked their door in the middle of the afternoon, why they were all of a sudden wearing each other’s crosses. For now, they’d abandoned those problems in Paris, and the next time they’d have to be cautious seemed ages away.

At last Mischa pulled back, nuzzled his forehead across Sascha’s nose, and Sascha gave a long low sigh of contentment, boneless like he’d taken a muscle relaxer.

“We should call Mum and Dad,” said Mischa quietly. “They’re gonna want to know we’re here.”

Sascha groaned. “I don’t even want to think about Mum and Dad right now.”

“Same,” said Mischa, gentle, smiling. “But we call them now and we won’t have to again for days. Texts will suffice.”

“Texts will suffice _now_ ,” said Sascha impatiently, and he took one of Mischa’s hands and drew it to his lips, pressed wet kisses over his open palm.

“Not for Mum, they won’t,” said Mischa, but his focus had been redirected and his voice was hot. “Five minutes. Come on. We’re gonna need to get groceries, too.” 

“Now?” Sascha careened forward into Mischa’s shoulder, opened his mouth over the crevice between his throat and collarbone. They’d both been hard since Sascha had cornered him in the bathroom and they both knew that where this was going was inevitable. “ _Mischa_.” 

“You’re going to want the option of easy access to food after I wear you out,” said Mischa smoothly, “trust me.”

Like a penny from the top floor of a skyscraper Sascha’s stomach dropped; he whipped back and looked Mischa in the face with wide lurid eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Mischa, skipping fingertips up Sascha’s sides, “if you’re not shaking everywhere when I’m done with you, I didn’t do a good enough job, and I’m gonna do it all over again. I don’t want you to be able to _move_.”

Sascha gave a wrecked _hnnnnngh_ sort of noise in his throat.

“How do you expect me to talk to Mum and Dad after that?”

“Like you’ve been talking to them this whole time,” said Mischa, with layers and layers of confidence, “knowing that they have no idea what we’re doing.”

And that was exactly what they did, standing together nuzzling and running light fingertips over each other’s forearms and shoulders and faces and backs while they spoke with perfect clarity to their parents, who had long since touched down in Croatia and sounded cheery and light over the phone. Their conversation lasted for maybe five minutes and then Mischa made some half-assed excuse about needing to get groceries because Sascha had buried his mouth in Mischa’s neck and was sucking his skin with increasing urgency, rubbing his crotch into Mischa’s own, needy. When he hung up he grabbed Sascha’s hip and yanked him in. 

“You’re asking for it.”

“I’ve been asking for it,” said Sascha, rough husking quality to his voice, and kissed him.

This time there was an insistent kind of quality that had not been there before; Sascha’s fingers were clenched hard around the back of Mischa’s neck and he was licking up under his top lip and Mischa understood the desperation in his body language. After a moment of frenetic making out he said, “Do you want – ”

And Sascha said

“ _Yes,”_

And then they were stumbling over each other in their haste to get to the bed and Mischa pushed Sascha down upon it and there was nothing, nothing, nothing to stop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was quite long for the sake of plausibly getting from Point A to Point B but will you look at that, it's cabin time. :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've all been waiting for some gratuitous smut, so without further ado.

The mattress was soft as moss, the kind that slowly fleshed itself out again after you stuck your fingers into the material and pulled them out, unable to leave a lingering indentation. Sascha drew Mischa down beside him and in perfect synchronicity they fell back, horizontal across the bed, legs dangling. Under Sascha’s t-shirt Mischa could feel his heartbeat tripping with adrenaline. He leaned across, slipped his tongue under Sascha’s upper lip, smiled when Sascha did.

“Trust me?”

“Of course,” said Sascha, puzzled but wholehearted, so Mischa pulled Sascha back up, situated him cross legged so he could pull his shirt over his floppy blonde head. The sleeve caught momentarily on his wristwatch and they swapped shit-eating grins before Mischa threw it successfully off, got out of his own. Traced nonsensical patterns down the fine bones of Sascha’s chest until he reached the waistband of his gym shorts.

“I want these off. Boxers too.”

Easily, eagerly, Sascha slipped out of the remainder of his clothes; he was brash in the face of Mischa’s blatant interest and as Mischa watched he caught his lower lip under his sharp-edged teeth and grinned like a predator.

“Do I get to look at you, too?”

Mischa loved their banter. “Do you want to?” 

“No. Not at all,” said Sascha, false irritation in his sarcasm even as his eyes shimmered starlike. “Yes, Mischa, of course I do. You could be naked this whole trip and I’d be so fucking happy about it.” 

Mischa smirked. “Oh yeah?”

Sascha gave him that trademark insouciant look of his. “Yes. You’re hard, and I want to feel it. Come on, Meesh." 

So Mischa, mouth pressed to Sascha’s own, got up clumsy on his knees so he could slide out of his shorts; Sascha stuck intrusive fingers up under Mischa’s shirt and dragged it without ceremony over his head, little noise of satisfaction in his throat when he pulled back to gaze at him. Mischa flushed helplessly, furiously under his brother’s voracious scrutiny.

“Happy?”

“So happy,” said Sascha, sincerity shaping every letter, and he sprang up, dove on Mischa, pushed him back laughing onto the pillows. Elbows flailing, limbs kicking, they grappled, Sascha ducking down at last to kiss Mischa on the mouth, and then he threw one golden thigh over Mischa’s hips and pressed him hard down into the mattress.

Mischa groaned once, low.

“You’re so hard, Sash.” 

“So are you,” said Sascha. He was the kind of breathless that came with dangerous activity and Mischa loved his voice as it sounded now, sandpaper scrape against his throat. His fringe was falling haphazardly into his eyes and Mischa reached up to flick it tenderly away, warm inside when Sascha beamed.

Sascha propped an elbow on either side of Mischa’s russet head, situated so they were matched all the way down, hip to hip chest to chest.

“We can be as loud as we want,” he said happily, lips feathersoft under Mischa’s jaw.

Mischa grinned. “Are you planning to be loud?”

“I never _plan_ to be,” said Sascha, bright. “Sometimes it just happens.”

“Mmm.” Mischa bridged his hips up, let Sascha push them back down, little easy grind. “I’d like to hear you say my name.”

“Huh.” Sascha smoothed one hand down Mischa’s side, thumb finding his ribcage, each bone like a ladder rung. “Guess you’ll have to make me.”

“Is that,” said Mischa slowly, “a challenge?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” said Sascha, and paused with his hand cupping Mischa’s hip, pressure on his skin. Incentivizing.

Mischa hesitated. Then, quick as a panther, he flipped Sascha on his back, power shift. Unprepared, Sascha gave a shocked little intake of air, round eyes finding Mischa’s own; across Mischa’s face triumph streaked.

“A challenge, then.” 

Sascha growled. “I don’t think you’ll find it horribly difficult.” 

“Not at all,” said Mischa, breezy. “You’re at a disadvantage." 

“How so?”

Mischa shifted his hips forward so the position of his body forced Sascha’s cock to stand up straight against his belly, pearly fluid at the tip, quivering.

“I’ve barely touched you,” he said, and then he tracked his fingers up the inside of one of Sascha’s pale thighs and rubbed a smooth line across his balls. It was the first time he’d ventured between Sascha’s legs with anything other than a knee and Sascha froze, shocked. Mischa observed his face with guarded caution. 

“Okay?”

“ _Mischa._ ” Sascha propped up on his elbows, got a hand around the back of Mischa’s neck, kissed him slow on the mouth. Between them their chains clinked and Mischa thought distantly, _sacrilege_. “I’ve told you before, I’m not above begging. You know I’ve been waiting for you to jerk me off since we started.”

He took Mischa’s hand, pressed it firmly to his cock, looked him in the eye. When Mischa gripped the base and stroked up once, slow, Sascha closed his eyes, hissed a rough breath in through his teeth. Mischa flicked a deliberate thumb over Sascha’s slit, came away with his skin wet.

“Better?”

Sascha chuckled thick in his throat, eyes already dazed, recent jumped-up nerves forgotten.

“Jesus. Yes. Do that again.”

Mischa scooted back marginally so he could get a better angle, leveled his forefinger under Sascha’s balls, swiped gently up. They were heavy; it had been a few days and Sascha and Mischa were both deprived, overeager. With his free hand he traced a forefinger around the tip of Sascha’s dick, down the shaft, back up to swipe over his slit again. Sascha squirmed. 

“You like that,” said Mischa smugly, and Sascha bit his lower lip, grinned.

“Yeah. I do.”

He dropped his hand to Mischa’s chest, hooked a finger through the chain of his cross. Flicked a finger over his nipple, tracked ghostlike down his side, stopped at his navel, hesitant.

Mischa smiled, knowing he was waiting for permission. “You’re allowed to touch, too, you know.”

Sascha flushed. “I know.”

Mischa bent down, opened his mouth under Sascha’s jaw, nicked him gently with his teeth before he drew a wet stripe from base of throat to inner ear with his tongue. Again Sascha squirmed, made of sensation, only craving more. His fingers clamped down on Mischa’s wrist and his grip was rough and Mischa knew to go ahead; he ground his pelvis down into Sascha’s and felt him shudder.

“So,” he said, licking into Sascha’s ear again, “you think handjobs are just fine.” 

Sascha reached between them and wrapped his hand around the base of Mischa’s cock, drew it back, let it go so it smacked wetly against his stomach. Leaned in and sucked Mischa’s cross into his mouth, tongue wrapped around the blunted edges. Around it he said thickly, 

“I have this weird feeling you’re about to change my mind.” 

Mischa was wild for Sascha’s budding little oral kink, wanted him grabbing, kissing, touching without abandon. It was raw on his nerves how long he’d waited to do what he wanted with his little brother and he was bored of going slow, needed Sascha mindless and keening for him, incongruous for lust. He brought Sascha’s hand to his mouth, sucked two fingers in. Let him fingerprint the back of his throat while he stroked Sascha’s swollen cock slowly between them, easy slick rhythm established from how prolifically Sascha was leaking down his shaft. When he looked serenely over into Sascha’s eyes he found them gigantic and gorgeous and dazed.

He pulled Sascha’s fingers out to the tip, licked between them.

“Good?"

“Amazing.” Sascha rolled his hips into Mischa’s touch, unashamed now, needy. “Fuck, you keep doing that, I’m not going to last.”

Mischa sucked his fingers back in, slurped around them, grinned. “What, this?”

Sascha dropped his head back and groaned. “Yes, that.” He slapped at Mischa’s cock again, gently, so it bounced back against his belly. “God, look at that. You’re so fucking hard.”

“Yeah, whose fault is that,” said Mischa, amused even through the hot shock of pleasure that scraped down his spine for Sascha’s touch. “You don’t have to last. We have ten days.” 

“Ten days.” Sascha’s eyes went dreamy. Absently he thumbed at Mischa’s slit, licked the wetness from his skin, and Mischa growled for the implication. “Ten days for me to get on my knees for you.” 

Mischa felt his cock spasm involuntarily. “God, Sash.”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and he raised up on his elbows again so Mischa could kiss him, tongue down under his lower lip, tracing teeth, tasting himself, aware that they were both shaking. He wrapped his hand back around his own dick, worked himself once, drew Sascha’s cock against his own and started jerking them together. Sascha gave a high sharp yelp into Mischa’s mouth, breath stuttering, and then as Mischa found that perfect equilibrium between too fast and too slow Sascha started _whining_. It was indecent how thickly they were both seeping precome. 

“Perfect,” ground Mischa into Sascha’s ear, because it was and he was blurred out at the edges, needing it.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Sascha, voice shattered, and then with gargantuan effort he stopped Mischa’s wrist and scrambled up so he could perch astride Mischa’s lap, leaning forward with his long graceful thighs on either side of Mischa’s hips. Mischa watched him as though from behind a sheet of water, hazy from his lush lust, consumed. Sascha kissed him so deeply Mischa forgot to breathe.

“Keep going,” Sascha sighed, so Mischa obeyed, balancing him like he was nothing, bringing them both close and close and _close_ to orgasm before pulling back on his tempo, wanting Sascha’s eyes half-mast, command of language forgotten, belly quivering from how near to climax he was. Sascha was kissing him like he intended to acquaint himself with every corner of the inside of Mischa’s mouth, licking up the roof and along the sides, finding where his wisdom teeth meshed crookedly with his molars in the back, the product of getting braces too early. His kiss was deliberate but his breath was heaving and he was making these wrecked little noises in his chest and Mischa drank every one of them down like liquor, perfect poison.

“Do you want to cum, Sash?”

“Fuck.” Sascha was discordant, frenzied. “I want to cum with you. It feels so good, Meesh, Jesus, _you_ feel so fucking good.”

“So do you.” Mischa’s wrist was going numb from the extra girth but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t, Sascha was all choked cries and black eyes and they were _right there_. Against him Sascha’s belly shuddered and when he moaned helplessly into Mischa’s mouth he knew his brother was done. His free hand clenched around the nape of Sascha’s neck and he gave one last solid stroke and then Sascha sobbed out a ragged little groan and they were coming together, thick thick bursts down Mischa’s hand, so needed. Mischa was climbing clouds, dragging fingertips through the stars, out of his own body suspended wholly in bliss like a sea, and there beside him was Sascha, nebula-eyed and dusky at his edges. Lovely.

Into Mischa’s shoulder Sascha sighed his name, content and sweet and low, and Mischa was suddenly sideswiped by his emotion. He drew Sascha back and placed his mouth gently upon his brother’s own and Sascha melted into him like butter upon bread.

“Yeah?”

Sascha grinned, complete abandon in his face. “Uh. I can’t feel my toes, if that tells you anything.”

“Good.” Mischa thatched his fingers gently up through Sascha’s curls. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“God.” Sascha nuzzled into Mischa’s forehead. “You’ve been holding out on me, Meesh.” 

“Yeah, well,” said Mischa, grinning, embarrassed. “Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you or anything.”

“Oh, bullshit,” said Sascha without venom. “You and all your talk about wearing me out.” 

“Uh huh, and speaking of that. I can feel you shaking,” said Mischa. He kissed Sascha’s sweaty temple, clenched his fist around the sticky mess they’d left in his palm. “You want to clean up?”

“Yeah,” said Sascha, and then he ducked his head into Mischa’s throat and left a little wet kiss there and said, “love you.”

“Love you, too,” said Mischa, blossom in his chest from the need to specify, and then Sascha’s eyes were warm on his own and they were smiling stupidly at each other before Sascha helped Mischa off the bed, laced their fingers tenderly together, led him into the bathroom.

It was more comfortable like this than Mischa had ever imagined, the two of them so alone in that breathtaking little Alpine town, wanting for nothing and finding everything.

*

They showered together with Sascha’s music playing in the background, washed out and reminiscent of a dream under the muted splashing pattern of the water. Mischa leaned against the side wall and watched Sascha with his head thrown back, eyes shut dripping everywhere, the most beautiful unaware creature. In Mischa’s head snippets of lyrics undulated, nonsensical ebb and flow. _You know what’s to be said_ and _heavy days in June when love became an act of defiance_ and _I get myself so tangled up._

And that was true, he thought, because all he ever was around Sascha was clumsy sailor’s knots and pounding blood and an open, terrified, _open_ heart.

“You’re quiet, Mischa,” said Sascha, burbling under the stream of the water with his eyes still closed.

“I’m too busy watching you,” said Mischa, smile in his voice, and Sascha turned his head to the side and looked at him and beamed.

On the short walk to the grocery store under the darkening sky, bumping against each other and laughing about nothing, Sascha said, “do people know who we are here?”

Mischa wasn’t sure. He wanted badly to believe that they could blend in with the small population of villagers and vacationers but he was afraid of being found out at every corner and he wasn’t willing to risk what they’d been building so carefully over the last few weeks for such a little thing as a public kiss.

“I don’t know, Sash,” he said gently, “but we’d better be careful.”

“I know,” said Sascha, glumly. “It’s just nice to think about.”

Mischa smiled, stepped sideways into him, tossed an arm around his neck. “Doesn’t mean I can’t touch you.”

Sascha’s resultant grin was lovely, joyous; he grabbed Mischa’s waist, dug fingers into his hipbone. They were surrounded by wildflowers on both sides but none were so vibrant as Sascha’s face when he was happy. “We should go to the waterfall tomorrow.” 

“Whatever you want,” said Mischa, indulgent. “But I might not let you out of bed." 

Sascha’s face bloomed sweet strawberry red. “I like that idea better.”

The grocery was small, more of a local market than anything, and it took them less than half an hour to stock their cart. Had they not been half occupied flirting and touching and staring moon-eyed at each other they could likely have quickened the process, but as it was they were having fun and Sascha’s eyes were the happiest Mischa could remember seeing them. None of the store’s occupants looked twice at them; it felt like they could get away with anything. Nevertheless, Mischa was aware that this was a dangerous mindset and he kept a leash on himself, doing only the minimum with his fingertips pressed to Sascha’s low middle back, hand on the nape of his neck. It was like this that they got in and out without incident; by now they were finding their rhythm, learning the art of subtle public flirtation.

Under an expansive jeweled night sky they ate a slow, late dinner on the back porch, Sascha’s feet resting atop Mischa’s own, talking about everything, fearless. Mischa had gotten wine at the store and he was feeling gratuitous so he gave Sascha a big glass of it, the result being that Sascha was giggly and sweet and touchy by the time he’d finished. Mischa loved him so much it was almost agony.

“We should go lay in the field,” said Sascha when dinner was through, and Mischa agreed, let Sascha lead him out to the yards and yards of flowers behind the cabin, their way lit by the moon. Now there was no one around and Mischa when they settled down among the foliage took Sascha’s hand and braided their fingers slow together. Sascha couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Look at the stars, Mischa,” he sighed, and when Mischa did he felt like they were floating in them, so all-encompassing was the sky. It had been quite some time since they’d been to Serge’s cabin but Mischa could remember stargazing like this, sometimes with his entire family, sometimes just with Sascha, oftentimes alone. He was made for nights like this, for blindingly beautiful heavens, for the surge of contentment in his chest. Now lying here with Sascha amid the new direction their relationship had taken it was unlike anything he’d felt before.

“I’m so happy, Sash,” he said frankly, and Sascha squeezed his hand.

“Me, too, Meesh.”

“Yeah?” Mischa looked sideways at him. Sascha’s curls were falling everywhere, floppy soft around his head, thick blonde crown. “How was that wine?”

Sascha chuckled, soft tiger chuff. “Amazing. Good thing I didn’t have any that night in the hot tub or I’d have been all kinds of all over you.”

“More than you already were, you mean.”

“Right, like _making out in public_ all over you,” said Sascha, pristine.

“It’s really bad that I like public stuff,” said Mischa conversationally. “Really bad. When you came in for me in the locker room at the French...”

He stopped, sucked an inward whistle through his teeth. Sascha wanted to hear him say it because he wanted to hear everything Mischa was afraid to say.

“What?” 

Mischa shook his head, laughed. “You already know what I wanted to do.”

“Kind of,” said Sascha gently, “but I am a big fan of detail, you know.”

“I know. Terrible for you that you’re with me, then.”

Sascha was burning at the cheeks and deep in his belly for _with you_ because he hadn’t known what to name Mischa since they’d started fucking around but it was more than _brother_ and didn’t quite feel right when he thought _boyfriend_ and often he landed simply on _mine_. 

“Not terrible at all, actually.”

“No?” Mischa rolled onto his stomach, looked around them habitually, but there was no one. That was so often the case in this secluded little town that he foresaw them becoming accustomed to carelessness, and it worried him. He held himself up by an elbow, skin against the velvetine softness of the flowers, swiped a finger down Sascha’s sun-freckled nose and ran it over his lips. When Sascha’s tongue flicked out to taste his fingerprint Mischa shivered; his brother’s eyes were green coals, snake jewels.

“No. After all that guessing, it makes it more fun when you actually tell me what you’re thinking.” Sascha smiled. “I seem to recall you telling me that one day you’d let me cum down your throat in that locker room.”

“You recall correctly,” said Mischa, watching Sascha’s mouth as it passed ghostlike over his finger. He dabbed the tip in just to feel the wetness of Sascha’s inner lip, just to see what he would do, and in response Sascha drew him in to his third knuckle.

Mischa gasped; he hadn’t been prepared for it. Sascha held Mischa’s wrist gently at bay so he wouldn’t push but he was curious to see how much he could take and he guided Mischa’s hand slowly, past his molars, finally allowing him to brush the very back of his throat with his fingertip. Mischa’s eyes were liquid darkness.

Sascha opened his mouth so he could speak.

“More.” 

In captivated silence Mischa added his middle finger, inching in so Sascha could get used to him, but Sascha took it with no issue, easy as a breeze, let Mischa press against the back of his tongue. When he hollowed his cheeks there was immorality dancing around his eyes and not once did he look away from Mischa’s face. Mischa swore out loud. 

“God damn, Sash.”

Sascha pulled back slowly, popped off his fingers like he might a sucker, obscene. 

“Good practice.”

Mischa’s face went bloodless; he was hard for Sascha’s mouth and he could tell that Sascha knew it. “You can practice anytime.” 

Sascha pulled him down, closed his lips over Mischa’s own, kissed him like he meant it, and Mischa let himself go under, no resistance. Sascha’s mouth was warm and he tasted like the wine he’d drunk at dinner; Mischa’s fingers still tingled from the stimulation and he wanted all of that and more, wherever Sascha would give it to him. Lazy and luxuriant they kissed, fingers roping in each other’s curls, Mischa’s torso poised at a skewed angle over Sascha’s own until Sascha yanked him down flush.

“I’m not worn out, you know,” he said, voice like an underworld choir, falsely angelic. His hand on Mischa’s spine was hot and possessive. “Not at all." 

Mischa couldn’t stop himself grinning.

“That,” he said, “is obvious.”

Casually he skipped gooseflesh-raising nails down Sascha’s side, skin exposed between the hem of his t-shirt and his waistband, and got a hand up at the apex of Sascha’s thighs. Against Mischa’s touch Sascha’s cock twitched and he bit his lower lip once, slow, skin sliding out raw-red from the scrape of his teeth.

“It feels better than I thought it would,” he said under his breath, strained. “When you touch me. And I already thought it’d feel incredible.”

Mischa nuzzled up under Sascha’s chin, dropping moth-wing kisses along the line of his jaw, hand working rhythmically between his legs. Sascha was fully hard now and his hips rose automatically, seeking contact, pressure. Mischa gave it to him. He liked it when Sascha let his body rule.

“I want to touch you all the time.”

“You can.”

“Not nearly as often as I’d like to.”

“Yeah, well.” Sascha arched at the middle for pleasure. “Right now, you can. So have at it.”

Theirs was the only cabin situated at the top of that little hill, back deck facing only the field of flowers and a moderate but steep cliff face, secluded. As such, especially under cover of the late hour, Mischa felt no fear of witnesses when he slid the heel of his palm down Sascha’s inner thigh, reached assuredly up the leg of his shorts. Sascha wasn’t wearing his compression shorts, only boxers, and it was easy, easy, easy for Mischa to curl a hand around his cock, velvety and throbbing sharply with that influx of blood. The little moan that dripped from Sascha’s lips made Mischa’s stomach turn to embers.

“Like this?” Teasing.

“Yeah,” said Sascha, ragged breathless, “yeah, that’s good.”

Amongst the wind-careened expanse of gold and purple and sky-blue flowers they sprawled, kissing lushly with Mischa’s hand in Sascha’s shorts, massaging his cock at a tempo so indolent it made Sascha cry out, half frustration, half pleasure. His eyes when Mischa searched them were overbright and drugged from lust and Mischa couldn’t blame him. In a heedless sort of way he’d been grinding against Sascha’s hip since he’d started playing with his cock. He licked into Sascha’s mouth and twisted his wrist on the upstroke and Sascha’s eyelids fluttered, mindless.

“ _Mischa_.”

“Hum. Yes.” MIscha licked up Sascha’s smooth throat, hot line of wet, satisfaction in his voice. “There it is.” 

Sascha knew what he meant ( _I’d like to hear you say my name_ ) but he was not coherent enough by half to respond as he wished. He knew when he stood up he’d have trouble righting himself, knees enervated from Mischa’s killing rhythm. “You’re going to fucking murder me, you know that.”

Mischa wanted him speechless, wanted to stroke him until he was rendered inarticulate. “Yes, I do.” He smiled, picked his cross from Sascha’s chest with his teeth. “I don’t want you to cum yet. I prefer you like this."

“Like what? Dying?" 

“Hard for me,” hissed Mischa, and Sascha glimpsed authority in his eyes, felt his belly shudder in response. He wasn’t quite sure yet what he enjoyed in the bedroom - he thought he might like both control and to be controlled - but in his brother’s expression he saw the capacity to dominate, and it _thrilled_ him. Blurred fleeting images skittered through his brain, Mischa pinning him hard to a wall, thrusting mercilessly inside of him while Sascha, limbs draped around him, moaned powerlessly into his shoulder. He rasped,

“I’m always hard for you,”

And Mischa, grinning cruelly, dragged his palm over the crown of Sascha’s cock before he ceased the motion of his hand. Abruptly deprived, Sascha croaked sharply in protest; Mischa pressed a thumb to his mouth.

“I want you in bed. Wanna look at you. Let’s go.”

Sascha reached down to adjust himself; his cock was _aching_ and he’d been on the precipice of orgasm about six times. Mischa knew it; Sascha could see it in his eyes, but he understood enough to know that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, not here.

“Fucking cocktease, Meesh.” 

“Yeah, guess who you learned it from,” said Mischa, and he winked. “I fully expect and approve of you getting me back. Let’s go.”

He stood up; Sascha was gratified to see that his cock was tenting obviously in his shorts, and a damp spot had formed from all the rutting he’d been doing against Sascha’s hip. Unconsciously Sascha licked his lips.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Mischa smiled, rubbed his straining cock once through his shorts with the heel of his hand. “You fucking kill me when you moan like that. Drives me crazy to turn you on.”

Sascha knew what he meant; he thought he could cum just from watching Mischa touch himself, that incredible high of voyeurism. No one had ever made Sascha more wanton than Mischa, not by half, he’d have done anything for him. Unsteadily he got to his feet and Mischa pulled him in and kissed him so deeply Sascha swooned.

“It drives me crazy to watch _you_.”

“Watch me what?” Mischa liked to hear him specify, too. They were hip to hip and the urge for frottage was strong.

“Play with yourself.” Sascha shuddered, thinking of all the times they’d orgasmed together, lying in bed with their thighs pasted together, watching each other in the shower, side to side in the bathroom when things had really gotten going. “It’s so fucking hot, you don’t know.”

“Oh, I know,” said Mischa. His eyes were devil black. “I know because I’ve seen you. And right now I want to see you naked on that bed. Let’s go.”

Dazedly Sascha let Mischa lead him, so hard he was throbbing, the front of his shorts embarrassingly soaked with precome. That was happening a lot these days but he reasoned that Mischa was going through the same form of torture and he couldn’t worry about it. Between them their fingers were interlaced and Sascha watched the way Mischa’s thumb stroked over the back of his hand, hypnotized; he loved to watch Mischa touch him.

Up the back porch stairs, through the sliding screen door. They didn’t make it to the bedroom before Mischa was on him, tearing Sascha’s shirt over his head, hair messy from the flowerbed. Mischa kissed him and kissed him, open mouth and teeth crashing jarringly together as he drew him further back into the cabin, Sascha’s brain in fugue and his stomach curling with want. He was hungry; Mischa was, too. With all the restraint they’d showed for so many years, how could they not be?

When they reached their room Mischa walked Sascha back up against the bed, pulled his shorts down over his hips, boxers and all. Within seconds he was naked, too, Sascha scrambling to help him, and then they were collapsing together, Sascha scooting back and Mischa crawling up to him with one leg invading between his thighs, gentle grind against his balls. He pressed Sascha’s shoulders down into the mattress and rose up on his knees and looked down at him like he was miles and miles of clear Fiji sea, a wonder of the world. When Mischa looked at him Sascha felt like a god, flawless under his brother’s adoration. Scrutinized, he flushed, and Mischa touched his face.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy now,” he said, smiling, and Sascha made a face at him.

“No one has ever looked at me the way you do before.” 

Mischa canopied his torso over Sascha’s, leaned down to kiss his forehead, the apple of his cheek. “How do I look at you?”

Sascha thought for a moment, eyes closed, fighting the arousal that clouded his mind. Then he said, 

“Like you see me.”

Mischa thought this was one of the sweetest things Sascha had ever said. He passed his forehead across Sascha’s and they nuzzled like two big cats, eyes closed, breath catching. Mischa said quietly,

“I’ve always seen you, Sash.”

“I know,” said Sascha. “You were the first one to ever see me. You were the first one to ever make me feel important. You look at me like I matter.”

“Of course you matter,” said Mischa, still with his forehead resting on Sascha’s own. “You matter more to me than anything.”

“As do you to me,” said Sascha. He put his hand on the back of Mischa’s head, looked him in the eye, smiled. “I didn’t just fall for you because you’re hot, you know.”

“Good. I didn’t raise you to be that shallow,” said Mischa, but he was glowing gold with Sascha’s words. He kissed Sascha’s temple, all affection, sweet, and then his eyes flipped dark again. “Now stay still for me.”

Sascha caught the look on his face and the heat in his stomach fluttered again. Mischa put his mouth to the tip of Sascha’s nose, either cheek, under his jawline on both sides. Licked up into the little shell of his earlobe, circled his tongue inside so Sascha wriggled and chirruped in his throat, tickled and pleasured at the same time. Mischa couldn’t stop smiling; he’d been waiting to discover the places on Sascha’s body that made him quiver, writhe, cry out, and the exploration was as intriguing as he’d thought it would be. He spent extensive time suckling on Sascha’s throat, at the meld of his jawline to his chin, careful not to leave marks he couldn’t explain away lest they overstay their welcome. Still fresh from their earlier shower, Sascha tasted like rain and clean, and Mischa was enthralled.

When he was finished there, he moved down to Sascha’s chest, flicking at his nipples, the color of rosebuds under Mischa’s attention. He spent extensive time running his tongue over each one so they stood up like pencil erasers, sensitive and swollen, and eventually Sascha was panting for it, raising his head to watch the sly movement of Mischa’s tongue. Mischa was sly and deliberate about his work, lapping and sucking and nibbling until Sascha groaned in absolute torture, and still Mischa wouldn’t touch him where he most wished to be touched. Sascha’s voice when he spoke was rusty with need.

“Can a person cum like this? Just from nipple play?”

Mischa paused, chuckled.

“We can find out, if you like.”

“Depends what else you had in mind,” said Sascha immediately.

“Hmm.” Mischa ran a firm hand up the supple lankiness of Sascha’s inner thigh, blew hot wafting breath across one scarlet nipple. “Not that.”

Sascha’s heartbeat surged; he hadn’t been able to ask, but he knew what he wanted and it fully involved Mischa’s mouth. “Oh, really.”

“Really,” said Mischa, tongue darting out again; this time he tracked it wetly down the perfect center line of Sascha’s ridge-muscled abdomen, working his way down. “Unless you want me to take it slow on our first day, of course.”

Rationally, Sascha knew that Mischa was teasing him, but then again his rational brain was second in command to his carnal brain and it was panicking at the idea of a lack of fulfillment. “Mischa, _no._ I’m dying here. It’s a miracle I don’t have fucking blue balls.”

Mischa laughed again, wicked; Sascha loved this side of him, unafraid of his own control. “It is a miracle.” He swiped that cruel tongue hot around Sascha’s navel, dropped a sloppy openmouthed kiss at the center of his treasure trail. “But I’ve been waiting so long to taste you, Sash. It would be a waste not to take my time.” 

Sascha was up on his elbows watching now, every particle of him aware of Mischa’s proximity, how Mischa was carefully avoiding the area between his thighs. Sascha’s cock was screaming for attention, hard as steel and pulsing, laid flat against his heaving lower abdomen. He’d been damp at the slit since before Mischa had even touched him in the field but now his entire crown was shining with slickness and maybe in his right mind he’d have been ashamed but right now he was reduced to _want_ and he couldn’t take it anymore. In desperation he trailed a sly hand down his stomach to touch himself but Mischa was vigilant and stopped him before he could get even halfway there, smacked his wrist away, shook his head with one eyebrow arched as though he couldn’t believe anyone could ever be so naughty.

“No.”

“Mischa, _please_ ,” whined Sascha, because he knew what Mischa was going to do now and things had never felt so critical in his life. If he didn’t cum he was going to explode or maybe implode; as it was he knew he wouldn’t last ten seconds in Mischa’s mouth. 

Mischa put his mouth to Sascha’s hipbone, sank his teeth gently in.

“Soon. I promise.”

He was on his stomach between Sascha’s legs now and Sascha could see his hips moving: he was rucking himself slowly against the sheets. The thought of it nearly made Sascha’s eyes roll back in his head, that Mischa was this turned on just from licking him, from torturing him.

“You get off on this,” he said, wondering.

“Yes,” said Mischa, and his voice was strained. “I told you. It turns me on to turn you on. I love knowing that you’re a wreck for me.”

Sascha’s little gust of laughter was _battered_. “Well, as you can see, I’m a fucking disaster, so you got your wish.”

“It’s gorgeous, Sash. _You’re_ gorgeous,” said Mischa, and then he put his face between Sascha’s thighs and nuzzled over his cock with his forehead, the tip of his nose, kiss-swollen lips a hairsbreadth away. Sascha froze for the contact and dropped his head back and the sharp sudden jerk of his cock could only mean that he was leaking again.

For a moment Mischa stayed like that, rubbing his face all over Sascha’s cock, his mouth always so, so close but never touching, not quite. He was learning him, understanding his scent and the feel of his skin, hot as fever and throbbing slow with Sascha’s skipping heartbeat. Sascha’s breath was unsteady and he could hardly form coherent thought; he could have watched Mischa’s head bob and weave like that for hours, swaying like a charmed cobra.

At last Mischa ceased his little game. He looked up, straight into Sascha’s eyes, and what he found there must have satisfied him immensely because the smile that crooked across his lips was jubilant. Without removing his gaze from Sascha’s own he ducked his head and licked one long, extravagant streak up the length of Sascha’s cock. 

Sascha gave this sort of reverse gasp, quick exhalation like he’d been smacked lightly in the chest; and his face cleared like the sky after a squall. Mischa was obsessed with how he was panting, how vulnerable he looked, how absolutely centered around his own pleasure. He pulled off, leaned down so he could wrap his tongue around the base, and it was like this that he licked upward again, deliberate. The vein on the underside of Sascha’s cock was pulsating and when he reached between them to stroke Sascha’s balls he found them high and tight, as he’d known he would. Sascha was so ready as to be almost overflowing.

Mischa had been cruel enough. He hovered over the crown, swiped his tongue once over it, and Sascha shuddered. So thick was his taste that it could have been a true orgasm; he’d been dripping fluid for close to half an hour now, and it showed. Mischa slid one hand up Sascha’s thigh, squeezed his waist, and then he took the head in his mouth and sucked once, gently, knowing Sascha would drown amidst too much intense sensation.

He was right. Sascha’s back arched sharply; he swore out loud and slapped his hand down over Mischa’s where it rested on his thigh and his stomach was already quivering. Mischa gave him a second, let him acclimate. When he popped off the sound of his mouth was wholly indecent.

Sascha’s pupils were _blown._

“Fuck,” he said, and then he said it again, and Mischa showed a foxlike grin and swallowed his brother’s cock whole. 

Unprepared, Sascha cried out; his hips bridged automatically off the bed and Mischa followed his movement, forearm pinning his waist so he couldn’t thrust, and that was okay, because Sascha needed nothing more than this, not ever in his life, just the hot tension of Mischa’s mouth around his cock and the crown scraping the back of Mischa’s throat and God nothing had ever come near to feeling like this. Sascha was trembling everywhere and normally when he’d previously gotten so close to orgasm without fulfillment he could hang on for a bit but it was too good and the suction of Mischa’s mouth was perfection and he was already so close his vision was going alabaster at the framework. He was only nerve endings and stars and when Mischa swallowed around his cock he was thoroughly ended, chanting Mischa’s name as he spilled his seed down the back of his brother’s throat, fingers gripped hard around the sheets, toes clenched, ruined. Mischa swallowed his prolific orgasm like a champion and he didn’t back off until Sascha was spent, weak panting with his free hand lodged in Mischa’s curls, blissful.

“How,” said Sascha, raspy when Mischa surfaced and looked at him with his eyes glinting. “How the fuck are you so good at that.”

“Maybe I’m not,” said Mischa, grinning. He licked his lips and Sascha moaned for the implication. “Maybe I’m terrible. That’s the problem with me being your first.”

“First,” said Sascha ferociously, “and only. Get up here.”

Mischa was up to him in half a second; Sascha yanked him down and slid his tongue between Mischa’s lips and tasted himself, thick salt flavor in his brother’s mouth, and between them Mischa was furiously stroking his own cock but Sascha wouldn’t have that, not after everything Mischa had done for him. He seized Mischa’s wrist and pushed his hand away and took over for him, steady and practiced with his pace until Mischa was whimpering into his mouth, trembling, worked up. It wasn’t long before Mischa dropped his head onto Sascha’s shoulders and groaned his name out loud and when the warm splash of Mischa’s orgasm spattered Sascha’s belly he smiled in triumph, drew Mischa nearer to him, rubbed him out until he was satiated, shuddery in Sascha’s arms.

When he had finished they kissed once, slow and deep, melded together with Mischa’s seed cloying on Sascha’s skin. Mischa said,

“Worth the wait?”

And Sascha said incredulously,

“Are you kidding? Do you know I’ve never felt half that amazing in my life? You’re fucking astonishing, Mischa.” He shook his head. “It’s embarrassing how fast I just came. I’m gonna be hard again in ten minutes thinking about your mouth.”

And then Mischa was grinning and they were falling all over each other laughing and Sascha even through his relentless daze had the presence of mind to think, _this is only day one_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the majority of this at work because I should never be left unsupervised, and I was squirming the entire time, RIP. I honestly have no idea where this is coming from because like three weeks ago I was entirely immersed in my other saga about these two, Bring an Ocean Down, but I guess I'm feeling sweet towards Sascha again (because he's a HUGE IDIOT but you can't help who you love so whatever) and this portrayal of them has my whole heart. I hope you guys like it :)
> 
> Also thinking of making a Spotify playlist for this because music is a huge drive and inspiration behind it all. Thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> If there's enough demand I'll post more of this. I literally have like 200 pages + multiple other stories of the boys in present day that reference this origin story. Help.


End file.
